


No More

by Breath4Soul, SherlocksSister



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Angry John, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Bad Decisions, Dark, Dark Sherlock, Dark fic, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Explanation of the I Love You, Forgiveness, Getting past the past, Heartbroken Sherlock, Hurt John, Hurt John Watson, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, John is a Bit Not Good, Lonely John, Lonely Sherlock, Love Hurts, M/M, Names, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Pining, Post-Canon, Redemption, S4 trailer inspired, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock gets the heart burned out of him, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Tough choices, Treasure Hunting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, song inspired fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: After all their wars have been fought and the criminal masterminds defeated John and Sherlock are only left with their own demons and ghosts to defeat. Can they at last find their peace, and each other, without the war?

  Since Sherlock demonstrated a superior ability to discipline his physical self; choosing to eat or sleep only when it did not conflict with intellectual pursuits, John had every reason to conclude that Sherlock did the same with his emotional self; not feeling anything more nor less for John than he wanted to feel and only at such times as it was convenient to do so. Sherlock might love John, but it appeared he would never be in love with John. It was not consuming. Sherlock was not at its mercy. John believed that Sherlock only loved him as a matter of practicality and that when it became impractical to love John, then Sherlock could simply turn it off; box it away or maybe delete it like a corrupted file. 
  However, in that moment when he pulled the trigger and Sherlock’s facade shattered before his eyes, John saw the truth. 
A collaborative fic.





	1. Previous Wars

The sharp clink of ice cubes shifting against the glass in John's hand brings him back from the well-worn path of dark thoughts he was habitually circling within his mind. He blinks and stares down at the brown liquid in the dim light of the empty flat. He tastes the sharpness of it on his lips as his tongue sweeps over them. _Far too cheap for Sherlock’s tastes._ The heat of it, the burn in his stomach and chest, _should be_ a comfort but it does nothing to dull the now familiar hollowness and constant agony. He is growing more certain with each passing day that _nothing will._

He sighs and sets the glass down; unfinished. He leans forward and scrubs his hands over his face, feeling the coarse stubble and wrinkles under his fingertips and palms. 

_He is worn thin. Too damn old to be so helplessly lost._

He tries once more to convince himself that he is alive, they survived, and that is enough. _It should be._ However, it _is not_ and _never will be_. That endless cycle of guilt, despair, longing and anger is futile and exhausting but he is unable to stop it; as if tracing the path another time might reveal the elusive answers to the riddle his life has become. 

His mind makes the circle _one more time._

 _The Game Master_ was what the sadistic bastard called himself who took Moriarty’s place, gathering up the remnants of that criminal web for his own twisted purposes. He was every bit as intelligent as the psychopath that died on the roof of Bart’s, but doubly gleeful in indulging his immense cruelty. John shudders at the memory of the new _King of Consulting Crime’s_ high pitched giggle, like nails across a chalkboard, as he moved them around like unwilling pawns in his dark and deadly chess game.

_They had all been in way over their head._

The intent of the game never changed; it was, as always, _to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes._ Like Moriarty, The Game Master’s carefully orchestrated scheme was to force the impossible choice; to make Sherlock _burn his own heart out._ That is how Sherlock, John and Mycroft found themselves forced to play a demented game of Russian Roulette while The Game Master held London hostage. 

John took the gun first. He felt the weight of it in his hand. _Two bullets. 3 chambers empty._ There was no way to know if the first shot would be deadly or not. He assumed it would be. 

He could no more shoot Mycroft than he could shoot Sherlock. For all his pretending to despise his big brother, Sherlock needed Mycroft and cared for him deeply. Moreover, _London needed Mycroft;_ he was the only one that, if he walked out of that room, was capable of stopping the large scale terrorist attack in time. Without hesitation, John put the barrel of the gun to his own head and squeezed the trigger. He was gazing in Sherlock’s eyes. He wanted that to be the last thing he saw. 

The hammer clicked. _Nothing happened._ The chamber was empty. 

It was the _aftermath_ that was hardest to take. He knows he will never be able to erase the expression on Sherlock’s face; mouth open in a silent scream as the wave of terror and devastation rips through him. His shaking, outstretched hand was like a man desperately reaching for salvation as the world gave way beneath his feet. The horror and pain was so raw that John had to close his eyes to the truth; Sherlock Holmes was _in love with him._

John hadn’t known. _Not really._ He had suspected since the Best Man speech at the wedding that Sherlock felt something for him with an intensity beyond that of friendship. Sherlock had indicated it was _love._ John had wanted to believe that, _had wanted to for so long,_ but he was forced to accept that love took quite a different form for Sherlock. 

When questioned, Sherlock had always explained away in highly scientific terms every action that John might consider evidence of love. It was simply the logical outcome of a highly analytical analysis of the situation. Since Sherlock demonstrated a superior ability to discipline his _physical self;_ choosing to eat or sleep only when it did not conflict with intellectual pursuits, John had every reason to conclude that Sherlock did the same with his _emotional self_ ; not feeling anything more nor less for John than he wanted to feel and only at such times as it was convenient to do so. Sherlock might love John, but it appeared he would never be _in love_ with John. It was not consuming. Sherlock was not _at its mercy._ John believed that Sherlock only loved him as a matter of _practicality_ and that when it became impractical to love John, then Sherlock could simply _turn it off_ ; box it away or maybe _delete it_ like a corrupted file. 

However, in that moment when he pulled the trigger and Sherlock’s facade shattered before his eyes, John saw the truth. What Sherlock felt for him was deeper and richer than John ever imagined and powerful beyond any hope for Sherlock to contain nor control it. It was real and _true love,_ in every sense of the word, and Sherlock was drowning in it.

As much as that moment hurt, John would make that same choice again and again; putting the gun to his own head and pulling the trigger for that one moment of knowing the true depths of Sherlock’s love for him.

The Game Master had been delighted and amused by John’s effort at self-sacrifice, just as Moriarty had been when John grabbed him at the pool. He had typed in one digit of the six digit code and had promptly made it clear that shooting oneself was no longer an acceptable move. 

John opened his eyes and Sherlock appeared harrowed, frazzled and more frightened than after he had seen the Hound. His whole body trembled, his eyes wide and his mouth still open. Once again, John felt like the bomb in the room; strapped with the emotional equivalent of 20lbs of semtex. It was clear he was not getting out of this alive, and equally clear that he was the _instrument of death_ that would take everyone else with him. 

John couldn’t look away from Sherlock’s unshielded face. He was unable to breathe with the immensity of Sherlock’s honest, undisguised feelings laid bare before him. Seeing both of them with eyes locked and bodies frozen as vital time ticked away, Mycroft stepped forward and took the gun. With unfaltering resolve, equal to John’s own, Mycroft took a step back, aimed the gun at John’s head and pulled the trigger. 

It was only the flicker of relief in the second after the gun fired and no bullet tore through John that it became clear how much Mycroft had at stake in that moment. Killing John would be _unforgivable_. It would decimate his relationship with Sherlock and, if both he and Sherlock could somehow survive this, it would only be to witness from afar the slow self-destruction of his younger brother in John's absence.

“Been wantin’ to do that one for a while, haven't ya?” A dark smile pulled up one corner of John's mouth as he glared at Mycroft. They both knew that it was the only choice Mycroft could make and the one John _prefered,_ but better The Game Master think it animosity towards John than affection towards Sherlock that made that choice so easy for Mycroft.

Mycroft was sweating, abnormally white and leaning to the left. His left hand, meant to appear to be casually in his pocket, was actually pressing firmly into his side as a counterbalance to the intense pain he must be in. They discovered _much too late_ that his failing health was the result of a slow poisoning he had been unknowingly enduring from Anthea; one of The Game Master’s pawns. _He was dying._

“Ages.” Mycroft’s tone was flat and his face was utterly emotionless again as he held out the gun for Sherlock. 

The Game Master chuckled gleefully as he punched in the next two numbers of the code. He cooed about how _interesting_ things were getting and how _lucky_ John was and all John could think about was how the bastard reminded him of an evil leprechaun that he desperately wanted to give a good kick. 

“Yeah, was just thinkin’ how it's my lucky day.” John had sneered. Sherlock’s fingers, thin and trembling, wrapped around the gun and the air felt heavier. He took a deep breath and turned away from John and Mycroft to step towards the large screen from which The Game Master was overseeing this deadly game.

“This is _my move_ then.” Sherlock’s spine straightened and his head tilted. Then the deductions poured out rapidly and concisely as Sherlock unraveled all the twists and turns of The Game Master’s plan. John’s heart throbbed in his chest. Wonder and pride swelled at the brilliance and tenacity of the marvel of a man. 

When Sherlock concluded, John found himself leaning forward and grinning at Sherlock’s back. For a moment The Game Master seemed stunned too, but then the darkness flashed in his eyes. He grinned and slowly clapped his short, stumpy hands together. He punched in two of the remaining numbers as he explained that Sherlock still could not save London in time unless he made the choice, the final choice; _head or heart._

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped as he looked down. His fingers tightened around the gun still in his hand. The Game Master taunted him, saying he would only punch in the final number of the disarming code after Sherlock made the choice; _John or Mycroft._ The odds were extremely low now that the next chamber would be empty. After a long moment Sherlock lifted his head. 

“I love you.” Sherlock spoke the words straight ahead, not indicating to whom they were directed, but John _knew_. He couldn't see Sherlock's face, couldn't tell his expression, but he didn’t need to. Sherlock had said it in the exact same tone that he had once used while standing on the rooftop of Bart’s looking down at John _, ‘Goodbye, John.’_ and once on a tarmac as he prepared to leave forever, _‘To the very best of times, John.’_ What could not be said then, what could only be implied in those words, was being said now because this was John's goodbye. They'd come to the end. Sherlock was making the only choice he could. It was John's turn to take the fall and so Sherlock relinquished that truth to him now as the _last words_ John would ever hear. 

John took a deep breath, closed his eyes and surrendered to his fate. 

He heard the shot before he felt the sharp burn in his chest, and it was slow, _so horridly slow,_ that the hard floor rose up to meet him. 

The rest was only flits of blurred faces, distorted voices, pain and movement, and stillness and silence. He thought he felt Sherlock’s lips on his own at one point; perhaps administering CPR. However, he couldn't be certain; it all bled into the swirling darkness of overwhelming agony.

When John next was fully conscious he was in the hospital and it was several days later. He learned from the telly that London was saved; though it was not credited to Sherlock and Mycroft but rather a covert MI5 operation. 

_John knew better._

He also learned that the unidentified man known as _The Game Master_ was dead. As a footnote in a broadcast later that day he learned that a low level government official named Mycroft Holmes died of _heart related complications_ the day following the incident. 

John spent a week in the hospital. Sherlock never came to visit and nothing more was said about Mycroft on the telly. When John was released, there was no one there to receive him. 

Though still in a sling, he tried to keep busy. He packed up the apartment that he and the woman who had called herself _Mary_ had shared. He tried not to think about her; about what she had really turned out to be and about how they had made the only choice they could make when they shot her before she could kill them both. 

It was slow going. He exhausted easily and everything took more time with limited mobility in his left arm. He ultimately spent three weeks packing and making arrangements. He gave most of the possessions to charity, then took himself to a little bedsit. He wanted to move back to Baker Street, but so much had happened. Sherlock had never come to him in the hospital nor sought him out after discharge. There were no texts, no phone calls, no indication that he wanted contact with John at all. So he had to believe that Sherlock needed his space or perhaps was too busy cleaning up the remainder of The Game Master’s scheme. 

John waited and waited and it became more and more difficult to pick up the phone or simply show up at the door of 221B. His doubts grew. 

_What had he really seen? Was it an illusion? Just a product of a stressful situation? How did Sherlock feel? Was he embarrassed? Angry? Did he blame John for Mycroft's death; not identifying the signs of poisoning in Mycroft sooner?_

He convinced himself that if Sherlock was not going to come to him it was better to let his gunshot wound fully heal before forcing the issue and seeking him out. After all, he wanted Sherlock to see him healthy. Given what Sherlock must be going through in grieving Mycroft, he didn’t want to inflict more emotional pain by showing up wounded.

It was three months after the incident when John mustered the courage to return to Baker Street late one evening. It was with the certainty that he was ready for the next step. He had spent long hours contemplating everything that had been and was at last ready to see the true extent of that look in Sherlock's eyes and to reveal the feelings he had never been sure were welcome since that rejection at Angelo’s that first night. 

He licked his lips as he stood outside the door, steeling himself. His heart fluttered inside his chest. 

_Would Sherlock know what he wanted to say before he said it? Would he listen? Would he argue and reason it away? Would they kiss? If he could just kiss Sherlock then he could show him that he felt the same. Maybe he should just kiss Sherlock?_

He still had the key and since he wasn’t keen on talking to Mrs. Hudson before he knew where he and Sherlock stood, he let himself in quietly. He took a deep breath, threw back his shoulders and pushed open the door to the sitting room. For a moment his muscles immediately tensed in preparation for a fight as he took in the sight of Sherlock, apparently under attack. 

A tall, dark haired man had Sherlock pinned to the wall beside the couch; one hand clutching his wrist painfully tight over his head and the other on his neck. John had taken two steps forward before the sound hitting his ear pulled him up short like a dog meeting the end of his leash. 

A deep-throated, whimpering moan that was clearly sexual reverberated through the air. Sherlock slid down the wall, his chin tipped up and his knees splayed wider to accept the dark haired man pressing into him roughly. Muscles on the stranger's back and arse flexed as he moved his body harshly up and down against Sherlock’s. 

John watched for what felt like an endless moment. He was frozen; his mind unable to process the surreal sight that so sharply contrasted anything he had ever seen from Sherlock or ever anticipated from this moment. He couldn't breathe to speak. 

“That's a good boy.” The dark haired man murmured against Sherlock's neck. Sherlock’s face contorted in pain as the man bit down on his shoulder, drawing blood. “You remember.”

The familiar sound of Sherlock’s voice, made strange with its raspy threads of want and desire, at last broke the spell over John. He stumbled backwards, his foot landing on the creaky board by the door, and both men’s eyes snapped towards him. John realized with a second wave of horror who the man was, Victor Trevor; one of the _ghosts_ that had emerged through The Game Master’s manipulations. 

He was, so far as John knew, the first and only person Sherlock had ever loved romantically. 

John had hated the man instantly; before he had even learned through Mycroft Victor's history with Sherlock. John’s instant dislike had come from a gut feeling about the man and his interaction with Sherlock. Within a few moments of walking into their lives he was touching Sherlock; too frequently, without permission, and in a firm, authoritative way as if it was his natural right. The way he moved around Sherlock to set himself between the detective and John was like he was staking a claim; marking his territory.

In many ways Victor reminded John of Seb; he casually demeaned Sherlock’s abilities, as if they were ridiculous or annoying parlor tricks to be scorned and scoffed at. Unlike Seb, Victor looked at Sherlock with a certain smug possessiveness. His stare was hungry and predatory. 

Victor had, as it turned out, been an undercover agent under Mycroft’s employ; never intended to get close, but only to observe Sherlock from afar while he was in university in order to, if it became necessary, head off Sherlock from engaging in harmful behaviour.

Mycroft, new to such operations himself, failed to monitor his agent closely. He placed too much faith in the man, failing to verify his reports. Victor was a new agent, cocky and head strong, and Sherlock was his first assignment. He took it upon himself to go outside the parameters of the mission and insinuate himself into Sherlock's very limited trust; becoming his friend. 

At some point after gaining Sherlock's trust, Victor initiated an intimate relationship with the inexperienced young man. His protectiveness grew into a personal possessiveness. He slowly and subtly further isolate Sherlock from anyone that _'might hurt'_ the young genius; which was, to say, _everyone._

Sherlock, young and utterly inexperienced in both physical intimacy and emotional matters, thought it was love. 

Mycroft was enraged when he learned of the boundaries his agent overstepped. However, Victor, thinking himself in the strong position of holding his boss's baby brother in the palm of his hand, refused to find a way to end the relationship within cover, and instead threatened to blackmail Mycroft. 

Mycroft had done the only thing he could do; he exposed Victor as an agent to Sherlock. 

Sherlock had been devastated, humiliated and deeply betrayed by both men when he found out that he had been toyed with; he was only ever a job. Isolated and emotionally crushed; Sherlock disappeared. For years he lived on the streets and several times he nearly overdosed on drugs. It was a very dark time that Sherlock was just beginning to recover from when John met him.

When the path lead them to Victor it had a clear effect on Sherlock. Sherlock became smaller in Victor’s presence; young, uncertain and flustered. He seemed anxious and afraid but he also looked at Victor in the soft, open way one looks at their first love. It was an expression that held none of the anger and betrayal that drove them apart, but only longing for that time when affection seemed clear, pure and sure. It had made bile rise in John's throat, but John had spent far too much time lost within his own desire to sink into the sweet illusion of Mary’s love after the truth of her betrayal was revealed to fault Sherlock for the same.

“Heard of knocking, mate?” Victor sneered, his eyes cold and dark and his lips pulled into a taunting grin. Not relinquishing his hold on Sherlock’s wrist and neck, he moved to block John's view of him.

“Right… yeah, uh… _right_.” John narrowed his eyes on the small amount he could see of Sherlock. Sherlock's head was turned away and he’d slumped further, as if Victor’s hold on him was all that kept him upright. “Sorry… I was…” 

John waited three painful heartbeats for some sign that Victor was not what Sherlock wanted, but all that came was a small shake of Sherlock's head back and forth. John tightened his jaw, moving his eyes back to Victor. “I was _mistaken._ ” 

John tossed the flat key onto the floor. The clack was loud in the now quiet flat. He took another step back with his hands raised. They were shaking. It took a few painful heartbeats to realize his whole body was shaking. He had the fleeting notion that he was going into shock. His whole body was numb and distant. Everything was shutting down and the world was going dark. He was falling down a black hole; retreating away from the incomprehensible world before him. His vision was becoming narrower and narrower; focused down onto that smug smile on Victor’s face.

_Where's a bloody shock blanket when you really need it?_

He turned and fled as fast as he could before his body did something embarrassing, like collapse. He thought he heard Sherlock say his name underneath Victor’s laughter, but he couldn't risk stopping. He had not been prepared for _this._

John sighs and lifts his head to look around the bedsit. It had taken a few days walking around like a zombie before the full force of it hit him. It had come on worse than any panic attack; the emotional pain overwhelming to the point that it was made into physical agony. The bitter hopelessness of his shattered existence was just too unbearable. He lay in bed for days wanting to die just to stop feeling. 

This place; the bedsit, the emotional devastation, it is all so uncomfortably familiar. This is the inescapable cycle of his life. The wheel makes another turn back to those days before he met Sherlock or those days when he thought Sherlock was dead. 

It has been three weeks since he found Sherlock with Victor. Now, most the time he just feels emptied out; a hollow shell of the man that existed before. He can't decide if it is worse or better than the first time he was here. At least when he came home from the war he had the limp; people knew he'd seen horror, he'd seen pain and he'd come back broken. Now all his scars are hidden. Now, he forces smiles and goes about life and no one seems to notice that he is the walking dead. 

He sighs and looks towards the window, straightening his spine. He can't do this anymore. Sherlock made his choice and moved on and now it's time for John to take the lot he has been given and do the same. 

_Soldier up, Watson. You're either fighting or you're dying. No time for both._

He gets up, pulls on his coat and leaves that dark, empty flat. If he has to be miserable at least he can have company.


	2. So Lay Thee to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock slowly maneuvers himself onto his hands and knees, crawling a small way, keeping his head down until he can subtly palm the key John threw on the floor. He stands, swaying slightly. His head is pounding and when he reaches up, there is blood matted into the back of his hair. He staggers into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water before heading into the bathroom. It is only once he is under the shower that his poor nutrient and sleep-starved, concussed brain wonders why John had come to the flat in the first place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags. This is a Sherlock broken and abused. If dubious con, domestic abuse, drug abuse or suicidal thoughts are a trigger for you then maybe you should skip this chapter. There are better times to come.

“John, John,” Sherlock whispers in his mind as Victor lets go of his throat and Sherlock slides slowly down the wall to the floor. He hits it with a thump at the same moment as the door slams behind John. 

He is expecting the first kick, the one that lands on his left shin, rapidly followed by one to the thigh. He doesn’t care; nothing matters anymore. The last three months have seen his life descend into a living hell and if, one day, Victor was to squeeze his throat just that little bit too tightly, Sherlock knows he wouldn’t fight back. 

Victor is calling his name, bent over him now, trying to get his attention. Sherlock just sees the look on John’s face as he stood in the door; the shock, the disgust, the horror. It was what he had always expected from John when he found out who Sherlock truly was, what he had  _ really _ wanted from John all along.

His hair is grabbed and pulled back, tipping his face up to Victor’s.

“Open your eyes. Look at me, you cheating prick. You told him to come here, didn’t you? What did you think, huh? That he would  _ save _ you? After what you did to him, hmm? He took one look at you, your legs spread for me, heard that pathetic, needy whimper and he turned on his fucking heel and left. He’s not coming back either, is he?” Victor is punctuating his taunts with tugs on Sherlock’s hair. 

When he still doesn’t open his eyes, Victor begins slamming Sherlock’s head back against the wall. “No-one is ever coming to save you again. Mycroft left you, John’s left you. It’s just you and me now.”

The pain in his head reminds Sherlock of the time he was caught in a headlock by a seven-foot wrestler in Azerbaijan. That time he had fought, had searched in his Mind Palace for exactly the right move to unbalance and floor the giant. Now, Sherlock welcomes the pain, welcomes the on-coming concussion. As his vision starts to narrow and the blackness encroaches, Sherlock decides this is as close to sleep as he is going to get. Then he passes out.

Victor had watched him in silence from the side of Mycroft’s grave three months previously. It had been exactly one week since Mycroft had died and his body had been released following the post-mortem. Sherlock had only been able to attend due to the large hit of cocaine he had taken in the morning; the irony was not lost on him that Mycroft would have been appalled but what did it matter now? There was no-one to care anymore, no-one to tell him ‘no’, or to ‘stop’.

He had stood by the grave, watching as the coffin was lowered into the ground, and screamed John’s name inside his head, over and over again, drowning out the words of the vicar. It was so loud that Sherlock was convinced someone would be able to hear him, that John must hear him. But that was never going to happen was it? Sherlock had shot John and John was never going to forgive him. Given the choice between John and Mycroft, Sherlock had shot John, his best friend. His only friend.

The only person that had heard the screaming was Victor. That day he had taken Sherlock back to 221b and put him to bed. The next day there had been texts, then a phone call when Sherlock had not answered the texts and finally, as the darkness fell that evening, Victor had appeared at his bedroom door.

Sherlock had allowed Victor to pry him up out of his bed and force him into the shower. There had been tea and an attempt to make Sherlock eat. He didn’t make toast though, it just didn’t occur to him. Sherlock wouldn’t have eaten it anyway.

That night, Victor had lain down in the bed beside him and stroked Sherlock’s hair until Sherlock had pretended to go to sleep and then fallen asleep himself. Sherlock hadn’t really slept in ten days; every time he closed his eyes, the dark was filled with the look of betrayal on John’s face as Sherlock shot him. Over and over, Sherlock heard his own voice inside his head ‘I love you’ followed by the sight of John’s face and the deafening crack of the pistol.

The kindnesses had lasted just over a week before Victor tired of the silence, the refusal to eat, the irregular washing and the lying in bed with the curtains kept tightly shut. The first time he had lost his temper had been when Sherlock, stomach now so used to not eating, had vomited all over the bathroom floor when he had forced himself to eat two chocolate biscuits. Sherlock had simply crawled back to bed, ignoring the mess until Victor had appeared that evening and seen it. 

Sherlock’s lack of response to his rantings about basic human needs had seemed to tip him over the edge and Victor had slapped him around the face, hard. The act had resurrected just the smallest spark in Sherlock. For just one moment he became himself, the assured, confident Sherlock Holmes, and had leapt out of the bed and punched Victor. The blow had been pitiful in his weakened state and Victor had caught his wrist and twisted it behind Sherlock’s back before pushing him up against the wall and kissing him.

They had fallen into a routine of sorts. Sherlock never invited Victor but he came every evening, made Sherlock eat some of the food he bought and would fuck Sherlock in exchange. Sherlock didn’t care about the sex, or really even the food. Mostly he just wanted someone, anyone, to acknowledge that he still existed.

Lying in bed all day, Sherlock obsessed about how John would be recovering from his wound. He set up a hospital ward in his Mind Palace and spent his time tending to John in it; checking his vitals, the machines, turning him in the bed so John would not develop pressure sores.They would sit side by side reminiscing about old cases and sometimes Sherlock would read to John.  

Each day saw a small improvement and after two months Sherlock met Mind Palace John with his clothes and brought him home to 221b. In reality, he made no attempt to find out how real John was. He had thrown away his right to be concerned when he had tried to kill the man he loved.

The first time Victor had persuaded Sherlock to leave the flat it had been a battle but Sherlock had to begrudgingly admit he did feel a little better. They had walked in the park, Victor insisting on holding hands the whole time, then he had managed a little soup and bread in the park’s coffee shop. The daylight and fresh air had almost broken through the cracks in Sherlock’s flat blankness. 

Sherlock comes round to find himself still lying on the sitting room floor, head by the wall. Victor is sat in his chair, staring at him, a large glass of Sherlock’s whiskey in his hand.

“Good evening, sleeping beauty,” he snarls. “Get up, we have an appointment, remember?”

Sherlock slowly maneuvers himself onto his hands and knees, crawling a small way, keeping his head down until he can subtly palm the key John threw on the floor.  He stands, swaying slightly. His head is pounding and when he reaches up, there is blood matted into the back of his hair. He staggers into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water before heading into the bathroom. It is only once he is under the shower that his poor nutrient and sleep-starved, concussed brain wonders why John had come to the flat in the first place.

Victor has been insisting Sherlock accompany him to the restaurant for over a week. Sherlock hadn’t the energy to argue with him but had decided that by simply not getting washed and dressed he would be able to avoid it. Victor was meeting a friend and apparently wanted to show off his famous ‘boyfriend’. Their row over it this morning had morphed into something else.

Sherlock was usually passive when Victor fucked him. He was consenting, but only because he would take himself off into his Mind Palace, far away from what was actually happening. He did not participate or respond, which never seemed to bother Victor too much. This morning when Sherlock found himself forced up against that wall, Victor’s body pressed hard into the full length of him, he was disgusted to find his cock filling and hardening for the first time since Victor had reappeared in his life. For John to have walked in after three months and seen him in that humiliating situation was beyond belief. Why  _ had _ John been there?

Sherlock leans against the shower wall, supporting himself, as he washes away the blood. He watches it trickle into the bath and down the plug hole and all he can think of is John, lying on the cold concrete floor, his blood pumping out as Sherlock stood and watched.

Victor nods approvingly when Sherlock finally emerges clean and dressed in his black shirt and suit. His clothes are hanging off him and he has to do up the top button to hide the bruises on his throat from the morning. Victor kisses him gently on the cheek and helps him into his coat. On the walk to the restaurant, Victor rewards his efforts by treating him to two bumps of cocaine which Sherlock consumes then and there on the street, not caring if he is seen. As he snorts the drug he idly thinks of Lestrade, stripped of his badge, the police inquiry into his actions that day still underway. He wouldn’t have come to Sherlock’s rescue anyway, even if he still could.

The restaurant is overly warm, crowded and noisy. Victor and his friends laugh loudly and Sherlock ignores them. Instead, he stares out the window and listens to the pianist in the corner, singing gentle jazz for his own entertainment. The piano reminds Sherlock of Mycroft.

The night has been a success, Victor declares. Sherlock doesn’t remember too much of it, he has drunk a lot of wine and eaten very little. Apparently, it has been such a success they are all meeting again in the same place in three weeks time. 

Sherlock doesn’t give that too much thought. He doubts he will still be alive in three weeks time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off you go my lovely Breath4Soul, weave your magic


	3. I'm Chasing Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides a night out is what he needs to get over everything. Things start to look up right before it all comes crashing down when he stumbles upon Victor and Sherlock.

John hunches his shoulders and turns up his coat collar against the brisk night air. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shuffles quickly along the pavement, tipping his chin down to hide the pained grimace creasing his face. His eyes scan the shadows; knowing he won't find what he is seeking there, but he is unable to stifle the need to try. The hair standing up on the back of his neck and the gooseflesh raised along his sides have nothing to do with the wet chill in the air. 

_“John.”_ The sound of his own name being called in that distinctive, rumbling voice rings so clearly in his ears that it is as if Sherlock must be standing right behind him. 

His heart automatically jolts, thudding eagerly against his ribs, and his body snaps to attention. If he lifts his eyes he just might see him. That fiercely intelligent and piercing gaze will already be locked onto him, pulling him into orbit.

_Sherlock?_

He sweeps his eyes up and down the street, but Sherlock is not there. _He never is anymore._

His heart plummets into his stomach. He squeezes his eyes closed and violently shoves down on that swell of pain. He opens them again and forces himself to look straight ahead and to keep walking. _Time to move on._ Just a few more blocks to a decent pub. 

This, hearing Sherlock call his name, happens sometimes; usually in those moments when he begins to let his guard down. It’s only an illusion; a magic trick. Just a sensory memory stuck on a random loop. A pathetic lapse into self-deception born of too much longing and grief. _Nothing more._

 _Just got too used to it, is all._

When it was him and Sherlock, the two of them against the world, every other breath out of Sherlock's mouth held John's name. What could be in a name, really, especially in one so common as _'John’?_ Yet Sherlock had a unique power to infuse his ordinary name with a reality and meaning unto itself. John could almost believe that knowing and using his name gave Sherlock some sort of mystical hold over him; like a magic spell or voodoo. Hell, for all John knew it was just some psychological experiment; conditioning him with a Pavlovian-like response to the unique sound of his name on Sherlock's lips. It would be preferable if he could believe _that_ and then he could muster anger for the insensitive prick experimenting on him _once again_ … but John's instincts tell him that using his name _like that_ has some sort of sacred meaning to Sherlock, even if he can't understand _why._

Sherlock never does things casually. He always has an important reason, even if no one other than the genius himself is intelligent enough to discern the logic. So John had to believe there was a purpose for the four and a half exasperating weeks Sherlock had obsessed over not knowing his middle name. It was not as if John's middle name was a top secret nuclear launch code or the cypher to unlock some criminal conspiracy, yet Sherlock had pursued it with the rabid curiosity of trying to discern some critical clue. 

John had withheld it because… well, simply because _he could_. Sherlock had so much of John and offered so little, it was nice to be the one with something desired and unobtainable for a change. 

The odd thing was, it was always well within Sherlock's capabilities to just look it up on any official record of John's. With the detective's computer skills he could have had it within the hour; he needn't even leave the flat. Yet Sherlock had been determined to badger John into confessing it. He'd only resorted to obtaining John's birth certificate (of all things) when it became clear John was not going to be coerced into revealing his middle name. 

Then Sherlock shared his own full name on the tarmac right before he left in exile. John learned later that Sherlock believed he would never return and so had guaranteed his own death with a cocktail of drugs. It was with this knowledge of the finality of that goodbye that Sherlock had given John his own full name. It was Sherlock's _note._ He might as well have scratched it into the floor with his dying breath. It spoke volumes, while saying _nothing at all._ In the end, John had no idea what any of it really meant. 

That was Sherlock all over; an enigma locked by a cipher, all wrapped in a really _fine-arse_ suit. 

If Sherlock was laying out clues he no doubt thought John understood them. He would sometimes look at John like no one else knew anything but the two of them. This was always frustrating for John because, while the doctor is smart compared to most people, he just doesn't follow the genius’s brilliant leaps all the time. He is obviously cack at unraveling the man’s cryptic ciphers... or perhaps there really wasn't anything there at all to see, just empty words and the whole thing was in John's head.

_“I love you.”_

John shudders, swallows and takes a deep breath; willing the tightness in his chest to relax and his lungs to start working again. He pushes his palm flat against his sternum and rubs briskly.

 _No. Not going to think about him tonight. Have to keep moving._

He forces his shoulders to relax and allows the tight, military edge to drop from his walk. As he sinks down into a more limber, sauntering stride he tries to remember who he used to be; the outgoing, confident and personable man that women appreciated. 

He _used to_ get on well. He didn't turn heads like Sherlock, but a funny, charming, war-decorated doctor rarely has to sleep alone if he puts in an effort. To be honest, he had simply stopped trying. He'd decided on it the Christmas before Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart's. His then girlfriend, Janet, called him out on his priorities, _as so many women before her had,_ and he at last admitted to himself that there was never going to be a time when he did not put Sherlock before _everyone and everything_ else. It hardly seemed fair to anyone to keep trying.

Then Sherlock jumped to his death. 

Stumbling through the darkness of that aftermath, he'd collided with Mary and… well, he hadn't had to _try_ with Mary. She had invited herself in really; hadn't taken _‘no’_ for an answer. It hardly seemed logical to continue in self-imposed celibacy when there was a warm and willing body to ease the ache. 

That was what she was really; an anodyne to diminish his sensitivity to the excruciating pain of that violent extraction of his heart. She was a _painkiller_ , and he had desperately needed to kill the pain before it killed him. He didn't mind that she only offered an artificial sense of calm; that superficial, dulled stupor was enough to hide from reality. 

Then Sherlock returned and wanted things to go back to what they had been... but John was _not the same John Watson_ anymore. Like the psychosomatic limp, he couldn't quite shake the trauma of the injury Sherlock had inflicted. 

As it turned out, Sherlock was _not the same Sherlock Holmes_ either when he returned. He’d obviously been through hell but he was somehow _softer_ for it. There were moments with such raw and vulnerable looks that it shook John to his core. 

He couldn't face _that._ He couldn't face himself; broken and still desperately fleeing the full impact of Sherlock's devastating loss and deception. John simply didn't feel _strong enough_ to look it all in the eye. So he just stayed submerged in the numbing delusion, letting momentum carry him forward. 

It felt good in its own way; living on the surface, above the pain lurking underneath. And Sherlock was nothing if not his _enabler_ , pushing him and Mary together with such adamant determination that John could hardly refuse. But, as often happens with drugs, the effect diminishes over time and the consequences of the temporary escape only compounds the initial problem. 

As it turned out, Mary wasn't a _painkiller_ … just a _killer,_ in every sense of the word, that caused him previously unfathomable pain. John had to wake up and face everything or lose Sherlock for real. 

That same night that they had confronted her and John had seen who she _really was_ , he'd sat down and looked over all the files on the AGRA thumb drive alone. Sherlock was back at the hospital, and John knew he couldn't hide anymore. 

_She was right._ Whoever the hell she was (the records never really said) and whatever he'd once felt for her, he had no illusions of _love_ for her when he was done looking through her little _‘greatest hits’_ files.

There, in the last file was her latest job; _John Watson._

The truth was, John was an assignment gone wrong. Moriarty had used Mary on several jobs and then put her to watching both Sherlock and John after the cabbie incident. She was one of the snipers at the pool and a backup sniper on John during that fateful day that his world was ripped apart. No one had expected Moriarty to end his own life that day but, being the shrewd assassin that she was, she staked out her territory by insinuating herself into John's shattered life. Then in Sherlock's temporary absence, she waited for a successor to assume Moriarty's throne. When Sherlock returned, her embedded position would make her _very valuable_ to her new employer. 

John had been appalled and infuriated. _Just a job. An easy mark._ Maybe she held some sort of demented possessiveness towards him, but he doubted the woman reflected in those files to even be capable of anything nearing _love_. 

Well, he’d made the mess _himself_ , so he’d intended to clean it up _himself_ , without putting Sherlock or anyone else they cared about in danger. He'd worked with Mycroft for six months putting into place a plan and then he had returned to her side on Christmas day with the intention of having her lead him to the remainder of Moriarty's network before she was locked away in a very dark cell for the rest of her days. They hadn't counted on Sherlock's own plans; going after Magnussen and then sacrificing himself. Then they hadn't planned on _The Game Master_ emerging to take over the network. It all got very messy. 

_In the end, they were all in over their heads._

John lets those dark memories drift away from him as he arrives at the door of the pub. He _is_ going to enjoy tonight because the universe has been dealing him crap for years now and by his estimation owes him a good turn for once. 

He enters and looks around. He is familiar with this place from the days when he did go out regularly. It is a nice alternative to the noise and hustle of the bar scene. It is not so familiar that they'll ask uncomfortable questions but enough so that he can relax. There's a good sized crowd tonight, some light, unobtrusive music and some immediate potential in the form of a group of attractive women at the far end of the bar. He takes a seat at the bar and looks them over. 

The blonde seems most interested in him; eyeing him immediately with a subtle smile and smoldering eyes that say she is game but will make him earn it with a good chase... but he just _can’t._ She looks just a little too much like Mary and that turns his stomach. There is one with curly brown hair, but he can’t even look at her without an uncomfortable squeezing in his chest. He smiles warmly at the one with long, straight, black hair. 

It takes a moment to catch her eye. Apparently, she’s not particularly out to prowl or maybe she isn’t used to getting noticed among her more outgoing and flirtatious friends. When her deep brown eyes at last connect with his, she smiles back, timid and sweet, and John immediately feels some of the suffocating weight on his chest slide away.

_Maybe this night won’t be so bad after all._

It’s an hour and two beers later when the four of them exit the pub. He holds the door and places his hand gently at the small of the back on the young lady with the black hair, Miranda, as they move onto the pavement. They are still laughing over the rousing game of darts where John showed off how much of a crack shot he still is. 

“Four in a row! Who does _that?_ ” Kellie, the blonde, leans into John, mashing her well displayed breasts into his side. “You could have cleaned us out, John. You’re a _dangerous man._ ” She is practically purring, ignoring the eye roll from the curly, brunette friend hailing a cab and the hurt look from Miranda who is, no doubt, accustomed to Kellie needing to have all the men drooling over her. 

John's laugh is tight as he pulls away from the clingy blonde to turn more towards Miranda. “Been told _that_ before… but I think with a little coaching, Miranda here, could be a good match.” Her smile has relief and something near gratitude for his shirking of Kellie’s blatant advances. “You’re good.” he says dropping his voice and putting a spark in his eyes. “I can teach you, if you’d like.” He puts a hand on her hip and she melts a little. 

_God, this is going to be good._

_Deserve a little good._

“I’m bored. Where are all the bloody cabs?” Kellie is now hanging on the brunette. John purposely avoided _her_ all night; made a point not to learn her name. It was unquestionably rude of him, but he just _can’t._ Not _yet._ She is looking very irritated with _everything_ at the moment. 

It seems that John's _good fortune_ is going to continue. It was Kellie's idea to move on to a bar that is just a couple blocks away in the hopes that there might be some more 'action.’ It is actually closer to John’s flat and will be _very convenient_ when the other ladies find their own bloke and he and Miranda can slip away. 

“So you were a Captain and a doctor?” Miranda presses into his side a bit more. John has turned sideways and slipped an arm around her shoulder, looking up and down the street for a cab. Her hair is silky against his arm and she smells of lilac. She is petite, and the way she fits well against him feels powerful. The heat of her along his side is comfortable and starting that slow burn down low in his groin. 

“Still a doctor. Not in the habit of making people call me _Captain_ , though.” He winks at her and her cheeks flush a lovely pink. Her laughter is like everything about her, soft and shy. He will have to be gentle with her, which really isn’t _optimal_. He needs something rough and dirty, primal and selfish to make him forget he ever had a heart... but perhaps, _if the universe continues to favor him,_ it can still be _good._

He will warm her up a bit then let their bodies take over. Sometimes the soft and quiet ones prove to be savages in bed if given a safe space to show their darker selves. With any luck, Miranda will be one such hidden gem. And maybe they can have a go from time to time… just be a release for each other… No feelings or expectations; just a good shag with a _warm and willing_ body...

He is feeling the steady heat grow inside him at that thought when a cold chill shoots through him and his heart starts beating rapidly. A cab has pulled up and Miranda is talking, asking him something else, but on the edge of his hearing there is a sound growing steadily in volume. It is the low, indistinct rumble of Sherlock’s voice engaged in a heated argument. 

John considers for a few disorienting seconds that he might be hearing things again. It would be true to his luck that the universe would send Sherlock’s ghost to sabotage him just when he is about to get a little relief. However, interspersed with that unquestionably _Sherlock_ voice is a slightly sharper voice, sometimes overlapping. There is no reason for his mind to be adding a stranger's voice to those auditory echoes from the past. John pulls away from Miranda and starts towards the sound.

“Wait, John. Where are you going?” Miranda stands with her delicate hand out towards him; her face full of confusion. Behind her the brown haired girl has already climbed into the cab and Kellie is half hanging out its door, looking back at him as well.

“Miranda! John! Come on! It’s too far to walk in these bloody heels,” Kellie shouts, gesturing wildly. Miranda moves towards her, glancing back at John with a small frown.

“Yeah, sorry… I’ve - I’ve just... remembered something... need to take care of it... I will catch up with you at the bar, Miranda.” He tries to smile warmly but he is already half turned towards the rising voice he is now certain is coming from the alley. He knows his excuse sounds weak and she likely thinks he is brushing her off. However, if that is Sherlock shouting then he may be in trouble and John could never walk away from _that._

“Alright,” Miranda says softly and she climbs into the cab after Kellie. Her face is set in a deep frown and disappointment is in her eyes as they pull away. He feels a flicker of guilt over chatting her up then letting her down, but quickly puts her out of his mind as he jogs to the alley. He slows as he gets to the end of the building, peeking around the corner to assess the situation. 

There are two dark figures, little more than silhouettes in the dimness of the alley, but John recognizes them instantly as Sherlock and Victor. Sherlock is swaying slightly, hands clasped behind his back and his chin tipped down, Victor is leaning forward into Sherlock's space, his whole body taut and his hands balled into slightly raised fists.

“It is for a case. The Work requires that I-” 

The crack of flesh on flesh seems abnormally loud echoing through the alley. Sherlock’s head snaps to the side with the force of the blow but he turns his head slowly back to look at Victor. John shifts forward, ready to intervene but he hesitates, flexing his hands at his sides. What right does he have if this is just a lovers quarrel?

“Is it drugs? Were you out here looking for drugs, _hmm_? If you want something, you come to _me._ I’m the one that gives you _everything_. You hear me? Drugs. Sex. Food. Without me, you’d be wallowing in your own filth like a fuckin’ helpless baby. Wastin’ away in your bed cryin’ over that gimp. I do everything for you. _Me_!” Victor strikes him again, twice in quick succession, and Sherlock stumbles back a step. Victor steps forward; one hand fisted in Sherlock's coat and the other wrapped around the back of his head. He grabs a fist full of Sherlock’s hair and yanks down, tipping his head back.

Sherlock isn’t fighting or struggling at all. One hand is spread lightly against Victor’s lower abdomen, just fingertips touching, but he neither pushes nor grabs any tighter. John knows that he _can_ defend himself. He has seen him move with fierce, brutal precision to take down multiple, highly trained and armed criminals. If he wanted to take down Victor he could, _easily._

_Why isn’t he fighting?_

“Look at me…” Victor’s voice is dangerously low and heavy with disgust. “I know who you _really are._ Pathetic little cocksucker that no one can tolerate, much less love. I put up with you... _Yeah?_ ” He gives Sherlock a rough shake as if expecting some sign of agreement. “I ask so little in return. _So little._ And you can’t even do _that?_ Why, Sherlock? Why do you do this to me?” Victor leans forward, resting his lips against Sherlock’s exposed neck. “You drive me _insane._ You make me hurt you, you know? It’s like you want to piss me off. You know how it makes me. Yet, you _keep. Egging me. On._ ” He gives three rough tugs to Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock’s head is pulled so far back he can only look at the sky now. He swallows roughly. 

“You aren’t listening,” Sherlock’s voice is flat, surprisingly calm given the beating he is taking and the threatening vehemence seeping from every syllable of Victor’s words. “It is only logical that I will have to leave-” 

It is like a gun being shot. Victor slams Sherlock against the brick wall with such violent force that Sherlock goes limp for a moment. “ _You_ don't leave _me._ You are _never_ leaving me!” He roars into Sherlock’s face. The punches and kicks come fast and hard, nothing held back, and he is screaming awful things at the crumbling shell of a man that was once the glorious Sherlock Holmes. “Worthless prickteaser. Just a skank. No one is ever going to love you, freak. Think you are better than-”

Victor never sees John coming. John smashes into him like a battering ram and Victor goes flying sideways into the heap of trash. John is on him instantly; knees in his chest and fists pummeling relentlessly; blind with rage as bones crack and flesh breaks under blow after blow. 

“Stop! No! Don't! No, stop!” Hands are pulling him backwards off of Victor and then Sherlock, bruised and bleeding, is filling his vision. “Please, stop. You are going to kill him and I can’t - You _can’t-_ ”

John blinks up at him a few seconds as he comes back to himself. He is sitting on the pavement and Sherlock in kneeling in front of him. Sherlock's hands are gripping John's shoulders tightly, digging into his muscle, and he can feel the tremble in them. As he stares up into those silver blue eyes, he can’t quite connect to what has happened but his body figures out for him what to do next. He moves forward with open arms. 

Sherlock flinches, as if he expects John to strike him, but doesn't move to stop John from wrapping his arms around his thin, shaking frame and pulling him close. John is shaking too as it all crashes down on him. 

“Don’t you believe it. Don’t you fuckin’ believe it. You are the bravest and smartest and best man I have ever known. You don’t have to -” John crushes his eyes closed and holds Sherlock tighter. His hands are throbbing, _likely fractured,_ his stomach is clenching, his head is spinning and he is shivering cold and burning in fire all at once. Sherlock is in his arms; real, solid and warm, heart beating and breaths of air against his shoulder. The pain is _exquisite_. Real. 

“For Christ’s sake Sherlock - don’t - don’t..." He wants to say _so much_ but he can’t force himself to say it. 

_You don’t have to love me. Just don’t love him. Don't choose this._

"You’re better than _this_.” There is only a brief pause and a twitch of Sherlock’s head to the side against John’s shoulder.

“I really am _not._ ” Sherlock’s voice is quiet but utterly flat; absent of any emotion. He doesn’t move in John’s arms. He doesn’t hug John back. He stays as impassive as when Victor was beating him.

“No, you _are._ ” John turns his head into Sherlock’s neck and his mouth is right by Sherlock’s ear. His familiar scent fills John up, curling through him like warm smoke. He was unaware he had been missing that so deeply. John’s lips barely brush against warm flesh. A small sound escapes his chest; pain and want. Sherlock shivers and melts a little into him.

“John,” Sherlock breathes and it at last has some emotion; some of the depth and weight to it that it always used to hold. Sherlock’s breathing changes, slower and deeper. He turns his head slowly towards John and for a moment John feels himself falling, soaring. 

_Going to kiss. Oh, god, yes!_

Sherlock brings his hands up, they spread on John’s chest and stay there for only a second as Sherlock presses harder into him. Then he shoves John away with surprising force. John stares at him, stunned. Sherlock turns towards Victor.

“Go.” His voice is flat again; inhuman. “The police will be here soon. I don’t have the pull I once did. If they find you here with hands like that-” His pale, thin fingers are trembling as they press into Victor’s neck, checking for a pulse. Victor’s whole face is a bloody, unidentifiable mess. 

“Sherlock?” John pulls himself up to his knees, reaching towards Sherlock. Somewhere in the distance sirens are wailing. “Sherlock?” He lays his mangled hand on Sherlock’s shoulder; staring at his hunched back. Sherlock jerks away.

“I said go, John.” He remains focused on Victor. “He’s not dead but he will have to go to hospital. I don’t think he had time to see you. I can argue self-defense. He won’t press charges against _me_ … that wouldn’t end well for him -”

“Sherlock, I-” 

“Go. _Now_ , John.” Sherlock barks rising to his feet; his eyes are sharp and narrowed, his posture is straight and he is bristling. In spite of his bruised face, split lip and roughed up appearance he manages to look every bit as haughty and self-possessed as he was at all those crime scenes an eternity ago. The sirens are getting closer. John scrambles to his feet as well; squaring his shoulders to Sherlock and tightening his jaw.

“No.” 

“John-” John grabs Sherlock by the arm and pulls him close. 

“No, Sherlock.” His voice is quiet and hard as steel. Sherlock’s eyes slide closed. His jaw is tense and his fists are clenched at his side but he leans into John slightly as if he can’t help himself. He looks so tired and worn thin. This close John can see the faded yellow of older bruises along his cheekbones and in the shape of hands around his neck. John quivers with renewed rage. 

“Not leaving. Not unless you _promise me_... Promise me you’ll _leave him_.” Sherlock’s eyes snap open and something seems to crack in his face; he is raw with rage and grief. He swiftly brings his fists up to the center of John’s chest and shoves hard. John stumbles back, the breath knocked out of him. 

“For _what_ , John? Why the hell does it even matter? Why do _you_ care?” Sherlock’s jaw is clenched but his eyes are glassy; swimming with liquid. “I burn and break and kill everything I touch.” He is moving quickly now, pacing, hands moving in those familiar fluid, exaggerated gestures with the rapid flow of his thoughts. “He is right. No one stays. I drive them away. I let them down. I kill them and wound them and break them in infinitely unforgivable ways. I can’t even manage to be worthy of what little he gives me. I can’t _help it._ What I am. I just…” Sherlock stops and hangs his head. He takes a deep breath and everything about him sags. 

The sirens are close; a block away maybe.

“Sherlock?” John takes a cautious step towards him, hand outstretched. He wants so badly to touch Sherlock; to fold him into the sanctuary of his arms, to take him home and tend his wounds with the gentle tenderness he deserves... show him at last what it is to be _truly_ loved.

Sherlock lifts his head and his eyes are so full of soul-crushing sorrow that John is being ripped in two. “Please. I _will_... _Anything._ Just, please- It will be _my fault._ Go.” His hands stretch out a little in John’s direction, they are shaking and so very frail, like all of him now. John can't tell if that hand wants to pull him closer or push him away. The sirens are very close now. “John. Please,” Sherlock repeats softly, urgently. 

John turns and runs. He doesn’t stop running until he is all the way back to his bedsit. He slams the door behind himself and collapses onto his knees in the doorway. He just kneels there with his head hung in defeat. 

In the next flat he can hear a song playing. Slowly it slips in under his skin; low and slow, melancholy yet hopeful, and brimming with raw emotion and soul. He lifts his head and tilts it to the side as he just listens, the words resounding in his mind… suddenly, it all just _clicks._

Brilliant and simple _truth._

Rarely is the universe lazy and sometimes… _sometimes_ it gives you exactly what you need when you need it _most_ and expect it _least._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was by Breath4Soul.  
> It might be a collaborative effort from here forward.
> 
>  
> 
> **Please keep the comments coming! We love hearing from you!**


	4. Turn Your World Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hits rock bottom but someone unexpected is there to help lift him up. He has begun to slowly turn his life around when a very _different_ message takes over all of the airwaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured in this chapter was the inspiration for this whole fic. We highly recommend you take a listen to it:  
> [ **Love Ain't Gonna Let You Down**](https://youtu.be/btRVEfRT458http://www.yahoo.com) by Jaime Cullen

Sherlock's sits in the hard plastic chair and rocks back and forth, movements so small they are imperceptible to anyone watching him but enough for Sherlock to find them soothing despite the way it makes his backside and ribs ache. The rhythmic movements chase away the words etching a groove into his mind, swirling and swaying. Each time he captures them and pins them down, they ease out of his grip and begin their looping journey once again:

_JohncamewhydidJohncomeJohnheardJohncamewhydidJohncomeJohnheardJohncamewhydidJohncomeJohnheardJohncamewhydidJohncomeJohnheardJohncamewhydidJohncomeJohnheard._

Eyes closed, he can feel John’s arms around him; the warmth, the gentleness. Sherlock had so wanted to believe him; believe that it was real, that he could trust that and be safe. He had allowed himself, just that one moment, to breathe John in and to pretend he could have that; that John was really there to protect him. But, it doesn't change anything. Sherlock realises that now. It’s all the same. His mind circles back to that moment at the pool when John stepped out of the shadows speaking Moriarty's words. He had been horrified but a part of him had also felt... _relieved_ ; vindicated even. He had been struggling against the slide towards attachment to John during their months together and, for a split second, John was there with taunting words aimed at his most sensitive points; proof that he was right, sentiment was an emotion of the losing side. And then John opened his coat and revealed the bomb, but the truth didn't change; it only became clearer. More dangerous than Moriarty was John and his sentiment. Moriarty could kill him but it was John, always John, that really hurt him. John forced him to have a heart only to burn that heart out of him.

Sherlock touches his fingertips together under his chin to try and think but can’t stop them from rubbing against one another and it feels better. He ignores the other voice, the stupid voice;

_John came.  
John heard._

_________________________ 

Behind the two-way mirror, Detective Inspector Hopkins again flicks through the file on the desk in front of her. It is at the top of a large pile and relates to the most recent case on which Sherlock Holmes consulted. Hopkins is familiar with the details of this file; she had been the one to bring Holmes in, on the recommendation of Lestrade. Sighing, she sets the file to one side. Lestrade’s role in the events of three months ago, those outlined in the second file of the pile, leave her confused and conflicted. A good and honest copper, it appeared Lestrade had crossed the line and, in a fraction of an instant, shot an unarmed man dead. 

Hopkins has not been privy to the results of the official investigation but the informal ones, undertaken by their colleagues in the pub, all result in one conclusion; Lestrade shot that man to save the Holmes brothers. He had put a 20 year career, his family and his life on the line for two difficult, enigmatic, eccentric men. Few understood why. Those closest to Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson, had refused to elaborate to the others. They either kept their head down or exchanged knowing glances. However, Donovan, the only other officer at the scene, had once confided to Hopkins, _'The only thing I would do differently is to grab the gun and shoot that bastard myself.'_

D.I. Hopkins barely recognises the gaunt man before of her; hunched up, hands resting on the interview table in front of him. He most certainly does not appear to be worthy Lestrade’s assertion, _'He’s brilliant; mad as a box of frogs, but brilliant. You can trust him with your life let alone your case.'_ She _had_ trusted Sherlock at the time. There had been a look in the consulting detective's eyes; a deep burning intelligence and the ability to ask the right question, that one just hovering in the back of her own subconscious but not quite breaking through. He had solved the case in a dramatic, adrenaline-fueled rush, sparking and igniting everyone around him and drawing in power from John, Lestrade, Molly and, _despite her best efforts to resist,_ herself. It had been _electrifying._

That brilliant glow of atomic energy is gone now; the man in front of her is just the hollowed out remains of the core that had created and contained that powerful reaction. Now the energy source is split and spent. He is a melted wreck, a leaking bio-hazard.

Hopkins picks up the smallest file from the desk, containing just a single sheet and the third file, the heavily redacted one that makes no sense at all to anyone on the force, and goes to interview Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock raises his head slightly to watch Hopkins enter the room. He watches her feet, a vague recollection of their previous encounter skittering across his awareness like a flickering bulb. He makes a single deduction; he is to be charged with attempted murder. They would not have sent a member of homicide otherwise. The scrape of the chair as she pulls it out grinds through his head and he raises his hands to cover his ears, realising his whole body is shivering. He closes his eyes tightly, bowing his head to shut it all out; _he has made a huge mistake._

“Hello, Sherlock.” Hopkins speaks gently to the top of his head. She sees the blood matted there and the patches where the hair is thin revealing swaths of pink scalp and areas of shorter, finer hairs growing back in.

“Hopkins,” Sherlock mutters, not looking up but lowering his hands from his feeble attempt to cover his ears. “Did you bring me tea?” His attempt at his old imperiousness makes her smile. _Maybe there is still an atom of radioactive Holmes left after all._

“No. Would you like a cuppa? I can get you some. It’s shit, but it’s wet and warm.”

“Please.” This uncharacteristic pleasantry alarms Hopkins again. To hide it, she stands and speaks into the intercom at the door, requesting two teas.

“Right. Let’s get on with it. Sherlock, do you know why you are here?” 

“Yes. I was arrested for the assault of Victor Trevor.”

Hopkins checks the notes in front of her. “You confessed at the scene. You told the arresting officer it was _‘all your fault’_.”

“Correct.” Sherlock has still not raised his head but his hands have snaked their way beneath his coat to tuck under his arms. 

Hopkins sits back, looking him over, and waits.

Sherlock considers waiting it out; waiting until she is so bored that she gets frustrated, and then cross. Once upon a time that is exactly what he would have done; get her off balance then swoop in and hit her hard and fast verbally until she retreated. He'd coldly use that emotionality against her _as his enemies had done to him._ Now, it seems pointless. He has nothing to prove here, no cleverness to show, no game to play. The game is over and he lost. They _all_ lost. For the same reason Hopkins would lose if he pressed her, _emotions make you stupid._

"I did it." Sherlock lifts his hands to the table, fingers spread against the smooth surface to try to drain that jittering current of disquiet through them. The warmth of Hopkins palms as she lays her own over them and gently squeezes surprises him so much he finally lifts his head and meets her eyes. Her voice is sincere; too soft and too quiet for the harshness Sherlock has grown accustomed to.

“Sherlock, I can see why you thought you could persuade us you did this. The fact that you _haven’t_ is what concerns me the most. You missed the most obvious requirement for the deception and that speaks volumes to me. I don’t know who did this to Victor Trevor but, from what I can see, it seems like he probably deserved it. It was him that did this to you wasn’t it?” 

_He’d missed something?_

Scowling at his own stupidity, Sherlock shakes his head. “This is my fault, no-one else’s.” He means every word. It is his fault Victor was so enraged; his own arrogance to think he could start to rebuild his old life had caused this. A case indeed! The sheer ridiculousness of it makes him laugh.

Hopkins steels herself. This is far from the first case of domestic violence she has encountered; when you work in homicide, the two things go hand-in-hand, but it never gets any easier to see the depths humanity can reduce itself to. Sherlock’s cut lip is one thing but the two broken teeth exposed by this hysterical barking of laughter is evidence of a more forceful punch. 

She'd seen this too, the odd affects; laughing with too much vigor and for reasons no one else can see because it keeps them from fully feeling the pain of the situation. _Laughing to keep from crying._

She quietly watches his show of rebellion against the truth as she runs her eyes over him; systematically cataloging the injuries. It is layer upon layers, new on top of older, on top of older still. Close to the worse sustained abuse she's ever seen. His once pristine, smooth, white skin is a smeared watercolor in the reds, muted purples and dull yellows of rotting autumn foliage. Older bruises of yellow along his high cheek bones have been splattered with the bright red of fresh punches. A deep purple circling his left eye is underlain with splotches of yellow from its previous damage, not yet healed. The slightly awkward way his mouth closes suggests a jaw fracture. The swelling and jutting on his left hand suggests a fractured knuckle, the pattern is one she has seen result from the hand being stomped on. His lip is split, teeth chipped and there is blood on the back of his head from being thrown against something hard enough to sustain a concussion. The slightly foggy look in his eyes could well mean it's not the first. His hair has been pulled out in clumps; different places over a period of several weeks. The bruises at his throat are layered as well. They have given him basic medical care, cleaned him up a bit, but it's clear that if this doesn't stop it won’t be long before she is dealing with his _murder._

There is one more thing she needs to know. 

Sherlock is breathless with laughter, can’t seem to stop, doesn’t want to stop but she has slipped her hand over his again; holding it, patiently searching his face. 

No one is allowed to hold his hand, John will be angry. No, _idiot,_ not John, _Victor._ Victor will be angry. 

The laughter dies in his throat as he blinks at her, his thoughts set to circling again. _Why was John there? How did he know Sherlock was there? Had he been following them? Why would John do such a thing? John had come to his rescue, yet again. Why would John do that? Had John heard him calling his name? No… that was - only in Sherlock's head. It just doesn't-_

The buzzer at the door, indicating the arrival of their tea, knocks Sherlock off that train of thought; just a corpse falling bloodlessly to the tracks when reality makes an abrupt turn. Hopkins collects the tea from the constable at the door. She turns and holds it out, waiting a small ways from the table, enough to make Sherlock rise to his feet to reach for it. His obvious discomfort as he stands and sits back down confirms the worst of her suspicions about the range of abuse he'd endured. 

For a moment, Hopkins is stunned. The Sherlock Holmes she knew was confident, cocky even, headstrong and more than capable of defending himself and taking down criminals of every ilk. The last time she had met Sherlock Holmes, he had had a whole bevvy of acolytes, of people helping him. 

_How did this happen? Why has no one stopped it? Where are all his friends?_

There had, of course, been John Watson and Lestrade but also John’s wife and the landlady and even that pathologist that Sherlock had insisted work his cases with him. There had even been a brother. _What was his name?_

“Mycroft. His name was Mycroft.”

Hopkins starts at the strained shout. Sherlock runs trembling fingers through his hair.

“You want to know why no-one came to save me? ”Sherlock fumes; eyes swirling with dark emotions. “I’ll tell you why, because I killed them or I made them leave.” He lifts his head weakly, glaring at her with all his strength.

“Mrs. Hudson, I drove away; off to live in the countryside with her sister." He is now speaking in his customary rapid fire way. Yet, it is the wild, manic look in his eyes that makes Hopkins even more uneasy with this familiar idiosyncrasy. "Mary? I killed her. That was my doing; all of it. Drove John away, right to her. Delivered him to the wolves. She was under Moriarty’s employ, then _The Game Master’s_. Never saw it. Put a bullet through her head in front of John, no less, and with his own gun. Thought I'd saved us both.” He lets out a bitter bark of laughter and his face contorts with self-loathing as he zips on; the speed of his words accelerating and his voice growing harsher.

“But let's not forget Lestrade, your comrade in arms, I just ruined his life, is all. Followed the plan, _my plan,_ right where I put him. Shot _The Game Master_ to save me. Lost everything. Drove him away.” Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture as his eyes flash hot and he is leaning forward now, words gritted through a slightly disjointed and clenched jaw in a way that must be painful. 

“Down to John, then? Yes? What _haven't_ I done to John? Broke him in a million ways but in the end I killed him. I told him I loved him then shot him too. Watched him die. Was saving Mycroft, _so I thought._ But, oh, I was _stupid,_ an idiot; so slow. Mycroft was already dead- dying - poisoned. I never saw a thing until it was too late." His fingers have turned into claws now, digging at the smooth surface of the table. "So, Hopkins, you see, I deserve _every single thing_ Victor has done to me. I deserve a whole lot more too. You have my confession. So let’s just get this over with. Send me to prison. I should have been sent there two years ago. We’ve only been delaying the inevitable.” He puts his purple and yellow splotched wrists together and shoves them forward across the table to be cuffed. His eyes are gleaming, fierce and bright. His bruised and swelled features give him the haunting look of a vicious animal, cornered.

Hopkins looks down and keeps her voice deliberately even and calm. 

“You missed someone. You forgot...” She consults the heavily redacted file in front of her, “Molly Hooper. Wasn’t that the name she used? She seemed close... What happened to her?”

Sherlock blinks and sniffs, a grimace pulling his face. “Drove away, category. She was extremely good at her job, as you can see.” Sherlock waves a hand dramatically up and down indicating himself. “It’s her fault I am alive at all. She was an agent of the British Government, embedded to protected me. She did so for years, quietly and efficiently, before I worked out who she really was. So slow to do that too. I exposed her when I made her help me escape Moriarty's final plan. She broke cover to help me. She protected me and tried to do so again against _The Game Master,_ but she was already compromised by then, they were watching her and it nearly cost her her life. Mycroft saved her, _not I._ She was extracted. A new continent, a new life, a new mission.” Sherlock glares up into Hopkins's eyes. “There's your suspect list, spent. Alone is what I have, D.I. Hopkins. I couldn't protect them, why should you expect they'd protect me?” His fury spent, Sherlock slumps in his seat, his head in his hands. 

“Someone did,” DI Hopkins says softly. "Someone protected you today, and now you're protecting them."

_John. Why did John protect him?_

“No!” Sherlock slams his hands on the table and ignores the pain that shoots up his arm. “They are _all gone,_ Hopkins. I lost every single one of them. Burned them all out of me... It was just a trick. There is no magic code that changes it all back. _That's_ the fairytale. Love is the weakness; the virus that brings down the system. I am their destruction and they are mine. Victor is just the last of them; I loved him once and now Victor will destroy me. And that's the way it ends - the way _I_ end.”

“You've gone through a lot, Sherlock. I can see that. I can see what happened today has you shaken. You're hurt and you don't know who to trust... You didn't do _this_... but you’re protecting the person that _did,_ ” Hopkins persists as she carefully reaches over and takes Sherlock’s hand from where he is scrubbing at his eyes to try to stop the overflowing of hot liquid; those salty tears stinging at his wounds. She runs her fingers gently over the damp knuckles of his right hand. 

“There isn’t a scratch or bruise on this one. Whoever beat up Victor Trevor did a very thorough job; the doctors counted at least twenty two separate blows to his head alone. Massive force. His eye sockets are broken, his nose is broken in three places and his jaw is fractured. You can barely stand, much less pummel a man with that kind of force. Whoever did this to Mr. Trevor will have the wounds on his own hands to show for it; hands covered in blood and probably with a number of fractures or broken knuckles themselves. Your hands tell me you didn’t do this, Sherlock. Tell me who did.”

Sherlock stares down at his own hands, feeling oddly disoriented. He is so tired, so weak and now his head is pounding in a stuttering beat synchronized with every throbbing injury to his broken body. It is an enormous drum; thudding louder and louder, crowding out everything else as it works towards crescendo. There is no relief in between the beats; he can hear the buzz of the florescent lights, smell the sweat from previous occupants of this room; reeking of fear and stale coffee. He just wants to close his eyes and sink into the silence of that final rest. He pulls his hands back and curls them around the paper cup of tea to keep them from shaking. His thoughts skip randomly over the information she has provided, squeezing in between the pulse of his body. 

Not all gone? _Thu-thump._ Someone heard. Someone came. _Thu-thump._ John. Still John. _Thu-thump._ John saved him. Always John. John keeps him- _Thu-thump._ John wants - believes- _Thu-thump._

Twenty two separate blows. Somewhere in London John’s hands are covered in blood. Behind closed eyes Sherlock can see in slow motion the muscles of John’s back shifting under his shirt as he lands blow after blow to Victor with focused and brutal fury. At the time he had just watched, certain he had already died or fallen unconscious and slipped into that dream where John always comes to save him. 

_He and John against the world._

The wet sound of flesh on flesh mixing with the sound of exertion and bitter, half-formed, animalistic growls from John finally shook Sherlock free from that daze. He had been unable to say John's name, unwilling to make him real, until he'd felt those lips brush against his ear and the shuddering, needy sound from John's chest brought him back to life.

“I -” Sherlock doesn't understand the words trying to work their way out of his mouth. He looks up at Hopkins, and her eyes are kind and her hand is still gently holding down his left hand. He concentrates. It feels important. “I - I”

The door buzzes again, making Sherlock jump, and Hopkins sighs and rises to walk to it. She chats with the man in the doorway quietly and then shakes her head and shuts the door behind him. She scratches at her eyebrow as she slowly returns to stand by the table.

“It seems you are in luck… Victor Trevor came through surgery and is awake. He was informed of your confession but is refusing to press charges against you… can't identify anyone else. You are free to go, Sherlock.” 

For a few long moments Sherlock blinks up at her, unable to comprehend. He'd known Victor wouldn't press charges on him; not out of care for Sherlock but to protect his own actions from exposure. If he’d pressed charges, Sherlock's abuse at his hands would inevitably come out. Worse yet to Victor's mind would be publicly admitting that Sherlock had got the better of him in a physical fight. Victor prides himself on being the strong, powerful and in control one; not the victim but the victimizer. His ego couldn't bear the humiliation of admitting to being beat up by his boyfriend.

For all this, Sherlock had let that truth slip away somehow. Instead he had seen his own dark end looming. They would put him in prison and it wouldn't be long before one of the criminals he'd put away from The Work found a way to have the last word. Or they'd put him in solitary confinement to protect him from other prisoners and the echo of Moriarty hiding in the dark recesses of his mind would slowly drag him to madness. He’d welcomed his inevitable destruction. He hadn't seen a way out even though, on some level, he’d known there was one. 

_What had he been going to say to her?_

“I love him,” Sherlock says as he shakily rises to his feet, the pain surging through his body is nauseating. Hopkins's face darkens. She miscomprehends this statement, assuming he is referring to Victor.

“There are many kinds of love in this world, Sherlock. I've seen you when you were _well and truly_ loved. You were brilliant… _beautiful_ even.” She studies his battered face for a moment. “Love doesn't seek to destroy beauty; it nourishes it, it feeds it, it tries to protect it and because of that they both grow. If you go back to Victor Trevor, he will kill you eventually... There are people that love you, Sherlock and… you deserve better than _that._ ” Sherlock blinks and staggers backwards a step as his insides twist and he feels physically struck with that familiar statement. Hopkins reaches out and catches him by the upper arm to steady him. She waits until he has recovered enough to stand on his own before she continues quietly. 

“You're wrong, Sherlock. Love isn't destruction, not _real love,_ it's salvation. It’s as much like death as it is like _birth,_ we meet it naked, stripped bear to the _truest version_ of ourselves... There are people that still care.... I miss you, Sherlock. The _real_ you. _This_ isn't you... Get away from Victor. If you need help, I'm here. When you are better... I could use the help of Sherlock Holmes on a few cases.” Sherlock squints at her, swaying slightly, letting her words sink in. 

“I _am_ leaving Victor. I have to. I made a promise,” Sherlock says flatly. He had told John he would, he cannot let him down _again._

The DI's face blooms in relief and she sighs.

“Right! Good.” She smiles and nods decisively. “Let's get you to hospital. I'll beg off and take you. We'll get you all checked out and on the road back to health.” Her eyes and smile are warm as she gives his arm a little squeeze of reassurance. 

“Yes, the hospital,” Sherlock says with some skepticism creeping into his voice. He can't understand why she is being so… _kind._ But there is something he has to do and this will work to his advantage.

In the end, despite of all his assertions to the contrary, it proves surprisingly easy to end things with Victor. 

Sherlock slips away from Hopkins and the nurses easily enough while waiting for head scans and locates Victor’s room with the help of a quick search on the computer at a nursing station. He watches it for a moment from the hall, ensuring that no one is currently attending him, then quietly slips inside. 

Victor is a mess. His face is swathed with bandages and a metal contraption has his jaw wired shut. The way his purple-ringed eyes widen and he squirms slightly upon seeing Sherlock makes something like satisfaction curl inside Sherlock, straightening his spine a little. 

“We are over.” Sherlock says flatly. Victor stares at him a long moment, holding his breath, apparently anticipating more from the confrontation. Then he starts laughing; a high pitched sort of wheezing thing that appears to cause him pain. When he cuts off his eyes are dark and full of disgust but beneath them Sherlock can see the tiniest shadow of fear. He believes Sherlock put him in this state and for someone who is always used to being powerful it must be terrifying to have the tables turned.

“You. Aren't. _Worth_ it.” He mumbles and slurs out through his wired jaw.

Sherlock looks him over a moment. It is so odd to see him powerless; broken. John did that to him; took this invincible demon and made him into a mumbling, sniveling farce. How could he not see it before - how pathetic Victor is? Sherlock's stomach churns as he steps in closer. He leans down over Victor and watches the fear fill his eyes. “You're right,” Sherlock says quietly as he palms the call button from beside Victor's hand. “I have it on good authority that I am… _better than_ this.” He turns quickly towards the machine regulating Victor’s medication and with a few swift taps of buttons turns off the morphine. Behind him Victor grunts in protest.

“Don't worry, sweetie, just fiddlin’ with the taps a bit,” Sherlock sings in a falsely chipper voice. He walks swiftly to the door and then turns to look back. Victor's eyes are wide as saucers and his whole face is contorted with fear. Never the brightest, he has no idea what Sherlock has just done, he just knows it is unlikely to be good. His hand scrambles along the bed, searching for the call button.

“Have a pleasant stay, Victor.” Sherlock holds up the call button and puts on a menacing smile. “I look forward to never hearing from you again.” He turns and swiftly leaves, the sounds of Victor's grunts of protest quieted by the snap of the door behind him.

\-------------------------  
When Sherlock first sees it, playing everywhere at once like Moriarty’s video, a jolt of fear stops him in his tracks. It has been two weeks since John saved him in the alley and, though life is empty in some ways, D.I. Hopkins does make an effort to keep him busy. Therefore, he is returning from a discussion of a cold case over coffee when every bit of media switches to the same image. He rushes into a nearby electronic’s store and, with the image blazing from all the screens, he stands before the largest one and just watches.

The video is shaky, likely taken on a camera phone, but still decent quality. The first frame is frozen a moment; a too close-up of a face, slightly out of focus, dark blue eyes with flecks of gold, warm brown skin, light blonde lashes, brow furrowed in concentration before everything blinks into motion. 

“Alright. Just like that.” The camera pulls back as it is handed to someone else. The man with kind, blue eyes, blonde and silver hair and military posture gives a warm, slightly nervous smile. _John?_ He is sitting on a stool in a small room, mostly cast in shadows. He looks down and strums his bandaged fingers over the guitar in his lap. He chuckles to himself, readjusting his fingers. “I'm a bit rusty... Nothing like what _he_ can do.” He looks up at the person behind the camera from under his lashes, his expression uncertain and anxious. 

“Go on. Tell him how you feel,” An amused, male voice encourages from right behind the camera. 

“Right.” John gives a decisive nod and his spine straightens as his face sets in determination. “I am Captain Dr. John Hamish Watson. That's the _whole of it,_ right there. This message is for William Sherlock Scott Holmes…” He narrows his eyes, tilts his head thoughtfully and his smile grows, laughter edging into his voice. “I think he might have been knighted at some point. So, there might be a ‘Sir’ at the beginning of it. Not sure…” He looks away for a moment, his face gathering into a more somber expression as he takes a deep breath. When he returns his focus to look into the camera, his eyes are intense; lit from within and sparkling with that fire of warmth that never fails to curl into Sherlock’s chest and speed up his heart. John swipes his tongue over his lips and leans forward and Sherlock can't help but mirror the motion. “Every line, Sherlock. _Every. Line._ ” He shifts back and nods again. “Alright. Here goes… well… _everything._ This is for everything, right?” He smiles broadly and there is such hope and love in his eyes as he begins to strum a soft, and slow, sweet melody. 

The video cuts to John standing on a chair. The angle is from below and beside him and noticeably shakier, the camera person apparently nervous. He is still strumming his guitar but the room seems much larger, swallowing the sound. He lifts his head and sings slowly, a smooth, soulful voice. _“Everyone knows I'm rightfully yours.”_ As he sings, the camera pans around to reveal his audience, a stunned room full of detectives of New Scotland Yard gazing up at him in various shades of confusion and astonishment, frozen in their tasks, papers and phones in hands, all turning to look. 

The image cuts again. John is standing outside a door to a hotel room; Room 207. He places his hand on the door and bows his head shaking it as he sings, _“So bring out your dead from your previous wars.”_

The scene changes again. It is down lower, propped on a table perhaps. John stands at the end of a long counter in the small lab. Beside him a round faced man with glasses leans on the counter and looks towards the camera, smiling broadly. _Stamford?_ John belts passionately, _“So lay thee to rest, 'cause I'm chasing away all the dust that you're leaving behind.”_ His lips pull up in a smile for a brief second before he winks and the next scene appears.

John is sitting by a window in a cozy restaurant, a busy London street blurred behind him. _Angelo’s?_ As he sings, a large man with a black beard dips into the frame and pushes a candle into the center of the table. John nods and smiles down at it as he is bathed in warm candlelight, the words spilling out of his mouth, rich and intimate. _“Because love ain't gonna let you down, Love ain't gonna let you down no more.”_ His voice rises in passion and some people outside stop to look in the window. _“Because love ain't gonna let you down, love ain't gonna let you down no more!”_

A new location appears. John is looking down at the camera from the top of a white stairway in an old dilapidated building. _Lauriston Gardens._ He smiles with eyes full of awe. _“Cause I'll turn your world around, and love ain't gonna let you down.”_ For a breath he just stares into the camera. 

It fades to black and when it rises again he is in a dark warehouse, walking slowly forward. _Battersea._ He looks intense, almost angry. _“You wear your heart like a brooch for all to see.”_ He glances off to his left and it cuts to him standing on the street with his chin tilted up as he looks skyward. 

_“But the blood that pumps through, well, you save that for me.”_ His jaw is tight and his eyes full of grief. The camera pans to follow his line of sight and settles on a slate gray sky over the roof of Bart’s hospital. 

Back in that dark, quiet room he sits beside an open laptop with ‘The Blog of John H. Watson’ in bold across the top of the screen. _“I've sweetened my tongue, and I've sharpened my words and my wit, and I've written my lines.”_

The screen cuts to him in an intimate little pub. Behind him stand two smiling men leaning on the counter. _Billy and Gary._ On the wall is a sign that says _Cross Keys Inn._ _“Because love ain't gonna let you down, love ain't gonna let you down no more.”_ Billy, looks nearly ready to burst with excitement. Gary throws his arm around the smaller man, a quiet smile on his face. As John sings, the camera pans around him, remaining fixed on him as he turns so that behind him two chairs beside a roaring fire come into view. _“Because love ain't gonna let you down, love ain't gonna let you down no more.”_

Sherlock shudders as the next image flashes up. John’s voice echos against the tile of the pool house as he stands with his arms outstretched, guitar hanging from around his neck. _“Feel it burning like a bomb raging.”_

Then John is standing with his back against the wall of a nondescript street - hand out as if it is clasped to an invisible person beside him. He closes his eyes and leans his head back. _“A thousand summers grazing on your skin. Restlessly anticipating so many tiny things.”_

He is standing outside a large wrought iron fence, in the background are the Queen’s guard in their distinctive black bearskin hats. _“Think as you'll love and I saw, I'll be your peace without the war.”_

Then he is in a museum, behind him is a glass case full of ancient, clay tea pots. _“Do you dream about busting with all other ways of a million rhymes?”_

John stands on a tarmac. Behind him a small, personal jet is taking off. _“Because love ain't gonna let you down, love ain't gonna let you down no more.”_

John sits in a chair at the end of a narrow hallway. In the distance there is the rumble of the train. His face is crumpled in sadness. _Leinster Gardens. The false front house. “Because love ain't gonna let you down.”_ He shakes his head and looks up with eyes full of pain.

John is in a cozy living room by a fireplace. A picture of a young Sherlock sitting beside Mycroft, skinny knobby knees and both grinning widely, is visible on the mantle. _His parent’s home. “Love ain't gonna let you down no more, because love ain't gonna let you down.”_

Hospital monitors blink in the small, private room. The room is familiar, distinctive because of the window looking out onto the nurses area. His line is delivered slower as the song seems to sink into a sort of melancholy longing, _“Love ain't gonna let you down no more.”_

John’s eyes have gone darker, red rimmed, he’s been crying or he is about to. He is standing in front of a door, 221A is printed neatly on it in Gothic letters. _“Because love ain't gonna let you down, love ain't gonna let you down no more.”_ His voice sound broken, mostly breath rather than tone.

The familiar pattern of whirls and marks of the door of the entryway to 221B’s sitting room is behind John. His voice is hushed, almost reverent. Sherlock hadn’t seen him this way but a few times. The strum of the background music has stopped. John is thumping the rhythm on the hollow of the guitar body, like a heartbeat. _“Because love ain't gonna let you down, love ain't gonna let you down... no more.”_ He stares in the camera and puts his hand over his heart as it fades to black.

The video ends in darkness, but after a few heartbeats John’s voice continues quietly. “It’s all here, Sherlock. Start at the _beginning._ I’ll wait ‘til the end.”


	5. Rightfully Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stage is set. The curtain lifts. Sherlock's odyssey begins.

Sherlock watches it again and again, picking up the slightest nuances. His nose is nearly pressed to the screen of the absurdly large display TV as he watches John’s face, drinking in every flicker of emotion like he is dying of thirst. His chest aches and he can hardly breathe. Each time John’s face fades to black there is a split second of panic before the voice breaks through the darkness and Sherlock’s heart starts again. The video loops three times and then all the electronics flip back to their regular programmes.

Sherlock shifts back and blinks around, his mind running over John’s final words and trying to decipher it. 

_"Start at the beginning. I’ll wait ‘til the end.”_

In the end, the solution is simple. _Criminal mastermind, John is not._

The scenes are out of sequence to the way they happened in their lives. It is a map, a trail that Sherlock is to follow in sequential order, a mystery to unravel. 

_Start at the beginning._

A spark flashes across the back of Sherlock’s brain and he dashes off to the little lab in Bart’s basement. 

_____________

 

He hasn't been here in years. The steel beneath his fingers is cool and he leans against it a moment, considering what he might find, before he at last cautiously pushes open the lab door. He startles, taking a small step back, when the door reveals Stamford leaning against the same side of the worktop he was standing at for the majority of that first meeting with John. He turns and grins broadly as Sherlock glances around and moves inside the room. _No John._

“Knew you'd work it out,” Stamford says jovially offering his hand. Sherlock takes it warily only to be pulled into a robust embrace. If it is as awkward as it feels to Sherlock, Stamford doesn't seem to notice as he laughs and gives Sherlock a thump on the back.

“It was you filming,” Sherlock says pulling away and looking Stamford over suspiciously. 

“Bloody right, been trying to get you two together since… well, _right here._ So mad at him when he did a bodge job with it and there was that whole-” He waves his hand about in annoyance like he doesn't want to say or even think about it. “Wasn't goin’ to the weddin’ - that's damn right. Wouldn’t have been able to keep my seat during that whole _‘anyone object’_ part.” His look of amused frustration opens into glowing joy. “But enough of _that._ He's come to it, now. Got his nerve about him. Got a lifetime to make it up to you and all that.” He pats Sherlock on the shoulder excitedly.

Sherlock blinks at him, trying to process it all. He instead retreats to familiar ground. “How'd he do it? Put the video everywhere?” 

Sherlock jumps when Stamford bursts into a ruckus laugh. “He knew you’d start with _that._ Always most interested in the _‘how it's done.’_ Forget the other stuff.” He scratches at his head thoughtfully. “Well, can't say I understand it all, but I guess he called in some favors - well, _all of them_ really. Mycroft's employer indicated she was _a fan_ of yours, or John’s blog anyhow. Agreed to... look the other way, so to speak. Then it was just a matter of that young fella, the boy that did the Moriarty broadcast for The Game Master. Just an innocent, really. Didn’t know what he was doin’ at the time... still it was John that got Mycroft to go easy on him; give him an internship instead of a prison cell… That’s just John all over... Good heart pays off in the end, I suppose. Good havin’ people in your corner, init?” 

Sherlock stares at him a moment. His instinct is to say _'I wouldn't know,’_ but that is not exactly true. There is Hopkins and she seems to be in his corner. She’d stayed true to her word and given him some work once he’d seen to himself. She’d even managed to get Victor on drug possession with intent to distribute, and got Sherlock involved in a domestic abuse support group. He found that he missed being around people so he didn’t talk much, just listened, and didn’t mention any of the things he deduced about them. 

Then there was John. After all that happened, for some unfathomable reason John had been in his corner that night in the alley. If he hadn’t intervened, Sherlock might have left in a body bag instead. A thought that, at the time, didn’t bother him as much as it should have. 

“What now?” He asks rather than voicing his dark tangle of thoughts.

“Right. Go on then.” Stamford gestures at the microscope where Sherlock had been seated that first day he met John. He hesitates, then walks over, regarding everything circumspectly. There is a note clipped on the tray with John's scrawled handwriting. It is clear he made an effort at his best cursive. It almost makes Sherlock want to laugh; the amount of effort the man went to and yet it still has the smudges of the blade of his hand dragging over it. The curse of a lefty, doomed to write a language developed by right-handed people.

> I was gone on you that first moment I saw you here. You looked up at me and I felt _seen_ for the first time in my life. I could see all the fire and brilliance in your eyes and every time you looked away I felt a little empty. I gave you my phone. I would have given you anything you asked of me... then, and every moment since.”

Sherlock reads it three times, then swallows before he pulls his eyes up to Stamford.

“Didn't read it, but I can guess what it says,” Stamford says with a small chuckle. “Christ, he was so afraid you wouldn't like the video - wouldn't come,” Stamford says quietly shaking his head.

Sherlock hadn't even considered _not coming._ John had told him to come, so of course he'd come. 

He lets his eyes slide over to where John had stood that first day. He remembers the thrill that sparked in the base of his spine and lit up his brain like a firework. _'You’ll do,’_ had popped in his mind the moment John looked at him. _Pure instinct._ Without really realizing he’d always been waiting for something, in that instant, like switching the lens and seeing the same thing made anew by powerful new optics, he could see his life in sharp focus and knew he _had_ been waiting and _John_ was what he'd been waiting for. 

Stamford leans forward on the counter and studies Sherlock and Sherlock isn’t sure what his face is doing but it feels like it is on fire over his stray thoughts. He looks down at his own hands, grimacing. 

“Knew it.” Stamford is smiling broadly again and nodding his head vigorously as if he has just confirmed something. “Right.” He claps his hands together and rubs vigorously. “He said that you should save the last two scenes until the end. Do those ones in the order it was in the video... Go on then. You know what happened next.” 

Stamford waves him off with an offer for coffee later. Sherlock tentatively accepts, surprised at how genuinely eager this old acquaintance seems to reconnect.

_________

Lauriston Gardens is just as Sherlock remembers it. If anything the building has fallen further into disrepair. There is no police tape around it as he arrives this time and no one comes out to meet him. The door is slightly ajar and he cautiously pushes it open and climbs the stairs to the first landing. He looks up at the landing above and almost expects to see John leaning over the rail and looking down at him in his blue coverall, cane still in hand. He sucks in a deep breath and steps back when a different head pops over the rail; the silver head of Lestrade.

“Well, get a move on it. Got a life to get back to. Can’t stand around waiting all day for _the Great Sherlock Holmes_ to make an appearance.” His voice is that gruff and affable tone he so frequently used with Sherlock _before._

“No one calls me _that_ anymore,” Sherlock says evenly, keeping cautious eyes locked on Lestrade as he slowly ascends the stairs to meet the former DI. 

Lestrade laughs. “No one called you that _then..._ least not to your face, anyhow. Too afraid your ego’d inflate so big that your head would pop off and float away... But it _was said..._ out of earshot, of course... In fact, I told John that second time you ran off on him - left him alone while you went off with the serial killing cabbie - I said _‘Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and if we are really lucky one day he’ll be a good man.’_ Well, you didn’t make a liar out of me.” Greg’s eyes look almost… _proud,_ (that can’t be right) as they sweep over Sherlock.

Sherlock has joined him on the top landing now. He keeps a guarded distance between them as he searches the former DI’s face for the anger he expects him to harbor. He anticipates a punch and he is debating if he should dodge it or let the man get it out. He deserves it, after all. Lestrade just smiles at him warmly for a moment, then shakes his head. 

“You bastard,” Lestrade says and then he is reaching for Sherlock and Sherlock makes the split second decision to let whatever harm Lestrade needs to inflict on him happen. What he does not expect is for Lestrade to wrap his arms around him and pull him into a tight embrace, every bit of it communicating that he missed Sherlock and is happy to see him. Sherlock’s mind scrambles in confusion.

“I ruined your life,” Sherlock asserts as Lestrade relinquishes him. Lestrade looks at him for a moment, brows pulled together and eyes quizzical, and Sherlock wants to sink away. He can’t comprehend how Lestrade can bear to look at him after everything; the way he had failed them all and the things he had seen Sherlock do in futile desperation.

“Hang on, now. Sod that. I pulled that trigger. I’d do it again. And I’ll have you know that it takes more than Sherlock Holmes to ruin me, else I’d not lasted this long…” Sherlock looks him over doubtfully. Greg runs a hand through his hair in a familiar expression of exasperation. “Listen, you’re thinking all wrong. I stayed away from you both because that’s what they told me to do. Didn’t want to make it messier. It was rough in the beginning. They did their job and made it pretty hard on me while they investigated the shooting. But with John and Donovan testifying on my behalf, they’ve pretty much wrapped it up. Should be letting me go back to work any day now.” He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Can’t come soon enough, I’m driving the missus crazy, potterin’ round the house.”

“But-” Sherlock feels himself quaking, his mind scattering, grasping at the threads of what he thought he knew. Something is tearing loose inside his chest. 

_Lestrade doesn’t despise him. He isn’t ruined?_

“You - You don’t... resent me?” Sherlock’s voice sounds as small and lost as he feels. 

“Christ, no. We all did what we needed to do. And I believe what I said there... You’re a _good man,_ Sherlock Holmes. The best possible man you could be for John - shit, for all of us. You saved London, incase you forgot! John knows that too. Whatever you think he’s thinkin’ you’re probably wrong. He knows what you did for him. He knows you did what you had to do and, just like me, he’d do it all again.” 

Sherlock steeples his fingers at his lips to hold the swell of emotion down; trying to think. He can see his hands trembling, but if he lowers them he isn’t sure what kind of humiliating grief mixed with gratitude sound will escape his lips. He turns away, closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath. There is a weight lifting from his soul, leaving him feeling pleasantly emptier; a little more capable of breathing. 

“Alright there?” Lestrade asks. Sherlock nods, not trusting his voice. He drops his hands and scans the room where they’d found the woman in pink, Jennifer Wilson. 

In the middle of the floor, partially obscuring the now faded letters ‘RACHE’ scratched into the wood, is a scrap of paper. Sherlock moves to it and crouches down beside it. He lifts his eyes to the vision of John as he appeared at this, their first crime scene. They were both much younger then, in some ways softer. John looked up at him, knelt beside her pink clad body, wearing that tilted, incredulous smile that would become so familiar. There had been a spark of excitement and intrigue in John’s eyes as he leaned closer to ask what he was doing there. It made everything inside Sherlock buzz. The memory awakes a crackling fizz through his insides, like an obstructed signal coming through in faint snatches. 

Lestrade has moved to the same position he was in as John examined the body; arms folded over his chest, leaning back against the wall. Sherlock picks up the note and reads it.

> You were brilliant. I was stunned. Couldn’t believe my good fortune that I found you and that you invited me in, asked me to come along. Of course I’d be your assistant, the bloody skull, your audience - whatever you wanted. I knew I was saying it out loud. I couldn’t help it. Had to be said. When you deduced that she had a suitcase from a splash pattern on her leg I wanted to snog you senseless. Might have done, dead body be damned, if Lestrade wasn’t standing there. You turned my world on its head and I’d have followed you anywhere from then on. 

Sherlock looks up at Lestrade a moment as he tucks the note in his pocket.

“What is this about?” 

“The note? I didn’t read it.” Lestrade says with a shrug. “That’s between you and him.”

“No. Everything,” Sherlock gestures widely. “The video, the trail, the people, the notes?”

Lestrade scratches at his scruffy chin as he looks up at the ceiling. “Well, I s’pose it’s not very complicated, Sherlock.” His eyes settle on Sherlock again as he returns his arm to crossing his chest. “It’s about you... and John. What is it you called him… your ‘conductor of light’?” Lestrade grins; unfolding himself and pushing off the wall as Sherlock rises to his feet. 

“I have never seen two people be for each other what you two have been. It’s a rare thing. And I have seen both of you without the other and it was nearly the end of ya…” He rubs at his brow, adjusting his jaw. “I knew you for five years before John, through all kinds of the worst of you, and, to be honest, I barely tolerated that version of you… but I never really met _you_ until I saw you with John; saw you through John’s eyes, saw how you could be with each other. You’ve always been a _great man_ Sherlock, but it was John that brought that _good man_ out of you. I’d hate to see how either of you would have ended up without each other.” Lestrade looks at Sherlock a long moment and Sherlock shifts his weight and looks down, memories of the time before John, when the DI would pull him out of the occasional drug house or found him on the street cold, hungry and in withdrawal, bubble to the surface. 

John was his conductor of light in more ways than one. John steadied Sherlock; made him... respectable. Likable. Better. He not only cast a light into the dark corners to allow Sherlock to see things he could not see alone, he also amplified Sherlock’s light so that the people around them could at last see all of Sherlock. Because when John saw beautiful, wonderful, brilliant things in Sherlock, the rest of the world learned to see it too. 

“I never said thank you,” Sherlock says quietly. The bark of laughter from Lestrade makes Sherlock look up. 

“I think you did. All of us owe you. You any idea how buggered we would have been if Moriarty or The Game Master came along and you weren’t here to help?” Lestrade whistles a plunging note as he turns his eyes to the ceiling.

“Perhaps they only came along _because_ I am here,” Sherlock retorts, lifting an eyebrow. These are the thoughts that often haunt him. So many of the things that those two monsters-in-human-form had done had been to entice, taunt and destroy Sherlock; was it not then his fault that those things occurred?

“Now you _are_ being a right idiot. No ego there!” Lestrade puts on a false voice, high and lilting, “Oh, I had my heart set on mass destruction and world domination but I’ve no mad, brilliant genius to possibly botch up my plans... I guess I’ll just go make pasties or work in the supermarket or something.” Lestrade laughs and Sherlock swallows, a bit of heat creeping into his face at how silly it sounds when put that way. “Evil’d been happy to run roughshod over good people either way. You gave us a fighting chance.” 

Sherlock nods slowly. It is difficult to shift his way of thinking but, no matter how fixated Moriarty and The Game Master had become on him, it now seems illogical to believe they would not have had similar ambitions in a world where Sherlock did not exist. He feels another part of that darkness clinging to him slide away.

“Alright, clear off! You’ve places to go, people to see.” Lestrade ushers Sherlock to the staircase and gives him a pat on the back, remaining on the landing as Sherlock jogs down the stairs. “Oh, you needn’t go to NSY later. I know Hopkins would be happy to see you but, after John’s little impromptu performance, he didn’t have such free run of the place to arrange something. Nearly got himself and that Stamford bloke sent to the mental ward.” 

“Hopkins... knows about _all this?_ ” Sherlock asks, pausing to look up at Lestrade from the first landing. He feels a twinge of betrayal at the thought that she had conspired against him. 

“Oh, don’t be like _that,_ ” Lestrade says waving a hand in exasperation. “She’s your _friend._ We all are. She just wants you to be happy. She’s a smart one too. Knows heartbreak when she sees it. You’d led her to believe John was dead or she might have done something on her own. Didn’t know he wasn’t dead until he did his performance and, well… it’s clear to see how John feels about you... She agreed to get you out of the flat so you would see the broadcast.” Sherlock looks down for a moment, thinking it over. Hopkins had seemed especially cheerful as they discussed the frankly uninteresting cold case this morning. When he had inquired about the source of her mood she had simply said she felt that _good things are going to happen today._ He hadn’t shared her optimism, but he rarely did. He had let it go without remark.

Memories of that day in the interrogation room flood back to Sherlock as something else occurs to him. He had purposely misled her into thinking John was dead. John would be the most likely suspect, no matter how much Sherlock asserted that they’d gone their separate ways. Hopkins had known that the person that came to Sherlock’s rescue that day had done their own hands significant damage. She is smart and observant. When she met John, saw he was alive, and saw his bandaged hands, she would have known instantly who had protected Sherlock and, in turn, who Sherlock had been protecting with his confession. He feels a little lightheaded and looks down to get his bearings. 

“She has been a good… _friend_ to me,” Sherlock admits hesitantly, unaccustomed to using _that word_ for people. It had been a term he reserved for John alone because John, his significance and what they shared, seemed to require an exclusive term that no other person was worthy to share. In reality, whatever John is, ‘friend’ could never cover it. Sherlock has yet to find a word that can. So now, he reluctantly surrenders the term to Lestrade and Hopkins. 

“She’s a good one to have,” Lestrade affirms. “Imagine we’ll be keeping you right busy once we’re both at it. You’ll be needing that _assistant._ ” Sherlock returns Lestrade’s precocious grin with a quirk of his lips, recalling that he'd declared to Lestrade on the suicide murder case that he _needed an assistant,_ then he showed up with _John._

Sherlock turns and move briskly down the stairs and out onto the street, to his waiting cab. 

____________

Angelo’s smells as delicious as he always remembers it. The scent of rich sauces and fresh spices envelopes Sherlock the moment he steps in the door and his stomach gives a grumble of anticipation. He looks down, puzzled, trying to recall when he’d eaten last. Some sweet, flaky thing Hopkins had shoved in front of him at the coffee shop. She has John’s skill for slipping food under his nose when he is deep in thought. He hardly realizes he is eating until he finds his hand reaching for an empty plate of its own accord and the taste of food lingering on his lips and tongue. 

Hungry again? On a case? _Unusual._

“Sherlock!” Angelo comes bursting out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “It’s been too long! Come. Sit. I saved your table.” Angelo ushers him to the booth by the window. “I have your favorite dish on order; your boyfriend’s request.” Sherlock clamps down on the automatic urge to object with _‘I’m not his boyfriend’_ as John has done so many times before. Angelo has never listened, no matter how many times they’ve told him. And now John has been in here singing Sherlock a love ballad at the top of his lungs; no chance dissuading Angelo of _that_ misconception now. 

Angelo barrels on in that boisterous, Italian bravado, “Al dente. Just as you like it and be here in a-” As if on cue, a waiter scuttles out of the kitchen and slides a steaming plate of pasta in front of Sherlock. The aroma makes Sherlock’s stomach do a little happy jump. Angelo pauses only a second before charging forth, arms crossed over chest defensively, and ready to squash Sherlock’s usual objections. “Now I know what you a’ gonna say-” 

“Thank you, Angelo,” Sherlock says, eagerly unfolding his serviette as he glances up at Angelo and smiles genuinely. Angelo freezes and blinks, then smiles broadly, stroking his hands over his apron as if he is unsure what to do with them. His voice drops to something gentler, for their ears only. “You know you can always come to me, Sherlock. Anything you need. I -”

“You owe me _nothing._ ” Sherlock waves his free hand dismissively, staring at his plate as he prepares a generous forkful for his watering mouth. “Any debt you imagined to owe me was paid many times over through the years with all your generosity towards-” Sherlock freezes, hand lifting to his mouth as his eyes cut over towards John’s empty seat. 

He had been about to say _‘John and I.’_ He still hasn’t said John’s name aloud in all this; still hasn’t made him _real._ He is chasing a ghost through his past, really, and he doesn’t understand why. He starts to set his fork down, feeling his appetite waning. The meaty hand clasping his shoulder startles him. 

“You’re my friend, Sherlock. Not because of what you did ten years back, but because of _you._ I do these things for friends. I do it for _me_ as much as them. It is what I can do. _My gift._ I share my gift with those I love. In this way, I share _me._ It is the most I can do.” 

Sherlock looks up him a long moment, stunned by the raw honesty. He hadn’t really thought of Angelo as a friend, though the man had done nothing but treat Sherlock as such. He can’t think of anything to say to this, so in response he shoves the forkful of pasta into his mouth, making a little hum of appreciation. Angelo gives him a pat on the back. 

“I’ll bring you a candle. More romantic,” he says with a slyness to his voice that makes it clear it is a line he is meant to say. He disappears back into the kitchen and Sherlock looks across the table to John’s empty seat as he eats. 

Their first dinner together John had looked so flustered; the pink in his cheeks setting off the blue in his eyes as he leaned forward to look at Sherlock. Sherlock had felt the flutter of butterflies in his stomach at that look. He was trying so hard not to show it and not to appear as frazzled as he felt. He was terrified, to be honest. There was so much natural chemistry between them and Sherlock didn’t want to screw that up, didn’t want to even risk it by trying for more because there’d only been Victor and he couldn’t bear this glorious, bright, brilliant thing becoming _that._

Angelo returns just long enough to slide a lit candle onto the table and it rouses Sherlock from his contemplations. He looks down and is startled to see three-quarters of the plate of pasta gone. He wipes his mouth with the napkin and reaches for the candle, which bears a small note in John’s handwriting.

> I _was_ asking. I was asking because I was interested. _Very._ Arse over elbows is more truthful. Then you turned me down - _why wouldn’t you, we’d only just met_ \- and I didn’t want you to not want me as a flatmate. Who wants to live with the pining bloke that you’d had to reject right out of the gate? So I played it off as a misunderstanding. Didn’t risk it again. I was a coward, really. Couldn’t bear to lose you. I’m sorry.

Sherlock rubs his finger over the last two words. It makes his chest ache. John apologizing to him is _absurd._ John had done the best he could with what Sherlock had given him, which was _very little._ Sherlock hadn’t just closed the door on a relationship, he’d slammed it in the man’s face and bolted it. John had smoothed it over so quickly and shown no other clear signs of interest. So, Sherlock assumed he had somehow mistaken John's interest; that it was only himself projecting his own desires onto John. Wishful thinking. He _had_ wanted John to want him, but he’d been afraid and handled it all wrong. 

Sherlock closes his eyes a moment and takes a deep breath. He’d made _so many_ mistakes. He finally lifts his head and slides out of the booth. He tosses a large bill onto the table; _a gratuity._ He pauses by the kitchen door then pushes it open to see Angelo standing among the gleaming stainless steel, cursing animatedly about basil in Italian at a cook on the other side of the pass. Sherlock smiles at the passion of the man for his work.

“My compliments to the chef,” Sherlock shouts. Angelo starts and turns towards him with a broad grin. 

“Grazie, Sherlock. Not so long next time.”

“Ovviamente,” Sherlock says with a nod. “Alla prossima.”

_________

Sherlock stands before the tall glass case staring intensely at the four clay, ancient, Chinese teapots. One is a dark, rich, silky brown whereas the other three are a more muted, dried mud color. Someone has recently made tea in it. Someone has continued SooLin’s work. 

“I couldn’t bear to let them fall apart,” A nervous voice interrupts the quiet of the museum. Sherlock looks up and narrows his eyes on the skinny, young man with curly brown hair and hazel eyes, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. “Not with how much she cared about them,” the young man, _Andy,_ continues as he turns his eyes back towards the glass case, placing his fingertips lightly against the clear surface as if to feel the pots through the barrier.

“She cared about them so much. So tender and reverent with them, I couldn’t help but admire her.” He bows his head a moment and Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but Andy cuts in again, looking directly at Sherlock through the glass.

“She told me once that beautiful things aren’t meant to be kept behind glass. They need to be touched, handled, loved.” He laughs a bit as he ducks his head to hide the flush of embarrassment in his cheeks, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. “I may have just wanted to hear that last word but, it seemed to me,... she wasn’t just talking about _teapots._ ” It is a crooked smile full of sadness that pulls at Andy’s long, pale face. 

“ _SooLin._ You should say her name aloud,” Sherlock says softly, still staring at him through the glass. Andy’s eyes widen a little and his mouth tightens. “You’re keeping her in glass,” Sherlock says glancing at the pots. Andy nods slowly and closes his eyes. 

“SooLin Yao,” Andy breathes and the pain skates across his features before it settles in a faint smile. He lifts his eyes to Sherlock again and they are glassy with tears. “You’re right... It- It hurts… but-” Andy taps his fingers against the glass, shifting himself. “You know, it's funny. According to practises in folklore, knowledge of a _true name_ allows one to affect another person magically. It is stated that knowing someone's true name gives the knower power over that person.”

Sherlock shakes his head in dissent, he is becoming aware of his heartbeat in his chest. His voice, barely a whisper, seems far too loud. “It’s the opposite. Knowing and using a person’s true name gives that person power over you. Binds you to them through their truth.” Andy blinks at him through the glass and tilts his head to look at the pots a long moment, hands shoved in pockets and shoulders hunched. 

“SooLin never bothered to learn my full name.”

Sherlock nods his head, understanding her reasons. “Couldn’t risk it. Caring. Being bound to you. Too dangerous.”

“Right.” Andy bows his head again. There is a long silence and Sherlock feels like the air is too thin as he studies the pots, thinking about the subtle imperfections in them. 

“Are you going to say it then?” Andy asks quietly. Sherlock suddenly feels his heartbeat in his sternum, his fingertips, his lips and his ears. “Keep it under glass too long and it goes to dust,” Andy says lifting his hand to the glass. Sherlock shakes his head back and forth minutely.

“It’s... _safer._ Could get... _broken._ ” Andy tilts his head in consideration. 

“It’s a _possibility_ … but it’s a _certainty_ it will slowly decay if you don’t take it out... use it for its intended purpose. It has to be touched, handled, loved.” 

Sherlock shudders and looks down a moment. He is suddenly wishing he hadn’t eaten so heartily as it feels like it might be coming back around. “Can’t-” Sherlock breathes, forehead nearly resting against the glass.

In his peripheral vision Sherlock sees Andy lift a note out of his pocket, and he hesitantly raises his head to look into Andy’s face. The young man's hazel eyes are full of sadness and his lips are pulled down in an almost hurt frown. 

“Then I guess this isn’t for you.” He puts the letter back in his pocket and shifts on the balls of his feet. “I guess this is as far as you come.” Andy turns to walk away. Sherlock feels like he has been punched in the chest, he can hardly breathe and everything hurts when he tries like he has a cracked rib.

“Wait... Andy, _wait._ ” Andy freezes and turns back towards Sherlock. Sherlock straightens himself and steps away from the case. His voice trembles, taking each word like a mountain to scale. 

“Captain. Dr. John. Hamish. Watson.” He can feel the tears pressing against his eyes; the sense of falling, like when he jumped from Bart’s. He closes his eyes. 

_‘It’s not the fall,’_ the darkness whispers, _‘it’s the landing.’_

Fingers against his wrist make him snap his eyes open. Andy has a tentative hold on his right hand and is pressing the note into it. He meets Sherlock’s eyes with a smile of gratitude, as if Sherlock has somehow given him some measure of closure with SooLin. “Hurts, but-” He nods at Sherlock with a small smile. 

Sherlocks shoulders shake, something between a laugh and a sob, and he realizes there is a warm, wet path of tears down each cheek. He clutches his note and turns away from Andy, mumbling a thank you. Andy nods and leaves him quietly. Sherlock takes a deep breath before he opens the folded piece of paper.

>   
>  _William Sherlock Scott Holmes._

Sherlock blinks at it, scrubs at his bleary eyes then stares at it some more. His name printed in that careful, slanted scrawl and drag marks over it from John's hand. He lifts it and touches it gently to his lips, then puts it carefully in his pocket and turns away from the glass case.

_____________

It takes all of Sherlock’s nearly depleted strength to step into the pool area again. It was the same place he had seen his childhood crush, Carl Powers, drown to death and the place where Moriarty nearly killed him and John. 

He half expects either John or Moriarty to step out of the shadows when he enters. He has no gun nor USB drive this time, not that either had done him much good. He looks up and around for the snipers, feeling exposed. He still can’t halt the split second of panic when a thin figure with curly hair steps out of the same alcove John had been in.

“Bit creepy, init?” Donovan says lifting her head and looking around. “Can’t imagine-” She steps closer and Sherlock instinctively draws back. She stops, tilting her head back a little and crossing her arms over her chest. “Right. Don’t blame ya.” She takes a step back and looks around. “God knows I haven’t been your biggest fan… I mean, I am responsible, in part, for how the Moriarty thing went down…” She shrugs, her mouth thinning. “Got played is all.” Shelooks down, shifting her feet against the concrete. 

“If I’m honest… Di’n’t seem fair. Di’n’t want you to be _real_ … Mean, I worked my arse off to earn where I was and you come in and could just... _look_... and see _everything_. Right to the heart of it, easy as breathing.” Her eyes hold a little heat as she stares at Sherlock. “And not just that... you stepped all over everybody while doing it. Especially Lestrade... I really respect ‘im - he looked out for me comin’ up… considered him a friend. Before John came along to teach you how to be human, you treated him like _dirt._ Less than. I seen what lookin’ out for you was doin’ to 'im... Was gonna lose his job over you one day.” Donovon tilts her chin up as if challenging Sherlock to disagree. Sherlock looks down, his mouth tightening. 

“Stupid thing was, I was trying to protect him and instead... Well, he was bloody near devastated when we all thought you jumped. Two years Boss rarely went home; nearly slept in his office. If he wasn't there he was drinking, alone, at some bar. Not a wonder his wife got lonely. It was like he thought he had to punish himself, make himself miserable, 'cause he'd somehow failed you.”

The guilt swells inside Sherlock's chest for what his jump from the roof of Bart’s had done to everyone. He tightens his jaw. “I had to.” The exhaustion from carrying the burden of all that guilt, all their pain rests heavily on him. He is forever bound to it, like an anchor round his foot as he struggles to keep himself above the surface of the shifting waters. “I was protecting him-” 

“Yeah, that's what I told myself too.” Donovan interjects huffing a laugh. “See, I was trying to protect him and hurt him,” she says softer with her shoulders sinking a little. “That’s all there is to it.” She fixes him with a pointed stare. “He forgave me though. He understood.” She waits, eyes expectantly fixed on Sherlock a long moment as if demanding some response. Sherlock shakes his head back and forth, not comprehending what she wants. 

“You still don't get it, genius?” She sighs, looking away for a moment. “See, I tried to do _right_ by him, do a good thing for him for all the right reasons, and it ended in a shit deal _for him_. We do the best we can for the ones we care for. Sometimes we hurt people when we are just tryin’ to protect them.” Sherlock meets her eyes now. Her head is tilted to the side, eyes narrow.

“We all do it... and John… John understands... better than most I reckon.”

“I shot him,” Sherlock says flatly a coldness curling into his limbs and making his teeth and fists clench. 

“Right. And you jumped from a building _for him_... and took a bullet in the chest _for him_ and shot a man _for him._ It’s not a point system, Sherlock.” Her hands are gesturing in the air now, her hair bouncing with the vigor of her exasperation. “You don’t keep _tally._ But if you did, I think you’d be runnin’ about even.”

“I _hurt_ him... It’s not that easy,” Sherlock says after a moment. Donovan sighs and crosses her arms, looking down with her expression dark. 

“Yeah, I know... I tell you what helps though, actually _being there_ \- trying to do better... It feels like shit at first but it gets better.” She shrugs. “Start feelin’ a bit more worthy of that forgiveness after while.” Sherlock nods slowly, mulling it over. They stand in silence for a few moments and it is surprisingly comfortable.

“Well, I have somethin’ for ya.” Donovan takes a note from her pocket and holds it out. She lets Sherlock come to her. He takes it carefully and she pauses, staring up at him, her dark brown eyes searching, as if trying to puzzle something out. “Wish ya’ luck, Holmes. I do” She says sincerely with a tilted smile and Sherlock understands that it is probably as close as he is going to get to an apology from her. She turns and walks away. “You should check out the blog,” she says over her shoulder just before she turns out of sight.

Sherlock waits until the sound of the door slamming shut echos through the poolhouse then looks around, a cold shudder running up his spine. He stares at the wall John had crouched against, recalling the look on his face, the sparkle in his eyes as they laughed at their near-miss. His insides had been all twisted up, fear and love, hate and gratitude. He’d simultaneously wanted to kiss John and run as far away as possible so he never had to feel so vulnerable again.

He opens the letter.

> The look you gave me when I stepped out and started saying those vile words he was whispering in my ear, I thought you would never trust me again. I felt like I should have done more to keep you from ever seeing that, feeling that way. You trusted me. I always felt honoured that you trusted me. I always trusted you implicitly as well.  
>  When it was over and you ripped the jacket off me it felt like you ripped me open. There it was, my heart, right out there for you to see. I _had_ shown my hand.  
>  We’d almost died, we would many times more, but it was never a question if I was willing to walk into hellfire and certain damnation with you. Nothing has ever made me feel more alive than you. I was always willing to lay my life on the line for you because living life without you would _not_ have been living. You once asked me what my last thoughts would be if I were dying. I still may not be very clever but after I met you it was always, _‘Please, God, let **him** live.’_

Sherlocks does not read _that_ note again. His hands shake as he shoves in his pocket.

_______________________

In the cab, on the way to the Battersea warehouse, Sherlock pulls out his phone. He takes a deep breath and navigates to John’s Blog. There is the video with the song at the top of the page and below it is a link simply titled _SH_. Sherlock clicks on it. Another video pops up. 

Gary is looking a bit nervous and Billy is off to the side, smoothing at his limp, blond hair. They are in front of the Cross Keys Inn. 

“Ready?” Asks Stamford’s voice from behind the camera. Gary looks over at Billy who pops over next him, smiling brightly. 

“Hi, Sherlock,” Billy croons in that nasalized voice. “We’re here with John. What a sweetie. Really a _keeper,_ this one-”

The sound of a throat being cleared off camera, _John’s,_ draws both men’s attention a moment. 

“Alright, alright,” Billy says turning back to the camera. “We just want to say-” Billy looks at Gary and Gary, who had been shifting nervously, smiles back warmly. Something seems to pass between them and they both visibly relax .

“We’ve been through a lot,” Gary says, continuing to stare at Billy with deep fondness. “Made some stupid mistakes too.”

“Hey, speak for yourself,” Billy says shrilly batting at Gary’s shoulder in playful scorn. Gary huffs and glances at the camera with amusement colouring his face. Then he turns his eyes back on Billy.

“The Hound,” Gary says out of the corner of his mouth jerking his head to indicate the camera or, perhaps, John. 

Billy smiles sheepishly and mumbles, “Oh, well, there was _that_ …” 

Gary’s voice drops lower as he stares with slight reprimand at Billy, “And the fire.” 

“Alright,” Billy squeaks grabbing at the larger man’s plaid-clad arm. “They don’t need a _whole list,_ Gary.” He smiles nervously at the camera.

“The point is…” Gary says lifting his eyebrows at Billy in invitation for him to continue. Billy smiles back, still holding onto Gary's arm with both hands.

“The point is, we forgive and we stick together,” Billy gives Gary’s arm a little squeeze and interlaces their fingers. 

“Yeah,” Gary confirms with a nod. “We protect each other.” They look at each for a long moment. Then Billy turns towards the camera, leaning forward and talking quickly and excitedly.

“My gran, she was married for like... _a hundred years_... and she always said that the secret to a happy marriage is that the commitment is not something you do once in a church in front of a bunch of people, it is something you do _every moment of every day_. You have to keep on choosing that person _over and over again_ in the big and small ways or you get pulled apart. Love is like that. You have to keep choosing it.”

Gary looks surprised and pleased as Billy straightens back up and looks at him. Billy flushes a little and ducks his head into Gary’s side. Gary wraps his arm around the smaller man.

“Right,” Gary says with a decisive nod to the camera and the video ends. 

Sherlock slips his phone in his pocket and looks out the window as the cab rocks its way to his next stop.

_______________________

He takes the same back door entry into the Battersea warehouse that he had used that afternoon he saw a woman that was not Anthea usher John unwittingly into a long black car that was not Mycroft’s. He’d arrived before John, since not-Anthea took John the long way round to the meeting place where Irene then emerged. 

He moves through the aisles now to the place where John had appeared. He'd been talking, he thought to Mycroft, about how heartsick he thought Sherlock was over Irene’s death. In truth, Sherlock's melancholy had little to do with the dominatrix who had shined a spotlight on his feelings for John from the moment he stepped in the room, tried to seduce both of them and then done little more than bring up bad memories of Victor with her drugged beating. 

No, his lamenting over her death was more about failure. He had made a lot of mistakes with her, as he had with John, and she was gone before he could correct any of them. After their drama at the pool, he’d been trying desperately to resist the pull of caring for John, who was publicly adamant in denial of any relationship with Sherlock. It was so confusing and hurtful and he just wanted _not to feel_ anymore.

When a dark haired woman steps out of the shadows Sherlock sucks in his breath and freezes. 

“Hello there, Sweetie,” a familiar Irish accent drawls. 

“Janine?”

“Oh, so you _do_ remember me?” She steps into a shaft of light and smiles broadly at him. The relief that it is not Irene is small and perhaps not warranted given how things had concluded with Janine.

“Not who I was expecting,” Sherlock says honestly, stepping closer. 

She shrugs. “Had some time and heard you could use a talking to. Couldn’t miss an opportunity to see an old lover.” Her smile is knowing. As much as she'd profited from elaborate stories of their sexual escapades, it was all fabrication. Sherlock looks her over slowly. She is wearing a very expensive dress, a posh fur cape, and has her hair drawn up in a flawlessly sleek bun.

“You look… _well.”_

“Yeah. I am. I really am happy out.” Her cheeks dimple as she looks away, nodding. “Writing a book now. Autobiography. I’ll send you a first run. Even sign it for you... for a price.” She winks and walks slowly towards him. 

“I don’t read smut,” he intones. She laughs.

“Sharp as I remember,” she says with an appreciative nod. She tilts her head, considering. “Let me have a look at you then; see that pretty face.” She steps forward and places a hand gently on his cheek. Her warm, brown eyes study him and Sherlock studies her back. He doesn’t see any anger in her eyes, just genuine affection, darkening to soft concern. His own face is still yellows and purples with healing bruises. “Oh, sweetie. Look at the state o’you.” She reaches for his still bruised cheek. “What’s John done to you?”

“John didn’t do this,” Sherlock snaps, jerking away. She studies him a moment.

“Not directly, no. But you forget, sweetie, I am the only one who really knows how you are... I’ve seen your scars.” Sherlock sucks in a breath, a pang of shame shooting through his chest. She hadn’t nearly seen all of them, but her eyes now have an echo of the same sadness in them that she’d had when she’d first walked in on him dressing and seen the crisscross of scars on his back from his time in Serbia. “I was there when he was gone. I saw you torturing yourself, killing yourself slowly with drugs over him marrying her.” 

“No.” Sherlock steps back, anger edging into his voice. “It wasn’t like _that._ ” Sherlock insists stiffly. “And I was hardly honest with you about _anything._ ” He fixes her with a cold stare

“Aw, sure look it.” Her voice is intimate and her smile is bemused as she steps forward again, brushing something invisible from his shoulder and fussing with the lapel of his jacket, smoothing it.“You shut me out in the end, but you don’t hide as well as you think, Sherl. Heartache is something you can’t hide. Too big, that.” Janine’s voice has that too soft and sad tone. Her head tilts and she narrows her chocolate brown eyes on him. “Thought maybe I had a chance to turn you round.” She grins, looking up from under her lashes. “Always was a sucker for a hard case.” She sighs and leans back to look him firmly in the eyes. “Story horse? Be honest. The drugs, Irene, me, _this-_ ” She brushes her fingers lightly over his bruised cheek. “That was you hurting yourself to punish him, wasn’t it?”

“That’s absurd. What happened - It wasn’t him and it’s not about hurting him. It never was-” Sherlock bristles.

“Is’nit?” Janine’s voice is light but her look is pointed. “I wasn’t such a hapless victim, y’remember. I knew what you were. I did well by you in making him jealous when you brought him ‘round; walking around naked but for your shirt, comin’ in on your bath, sitin’ on your lap and all. That kiss…” She inhales slowly as she drops her gaze to his lips. Her eyes are heated as she looks up at him again. She smirks at Sherlock and he feels a flush at the memory. 

He could feel John’s eyes on him as they kissed, their _first and only_ kiss. He could see John struggle to look away and he _had_ wanted to prove something and… perhaps… deep down, he had also hoped John would be jealous, perhaps feel a little of the pain of loss Sherlock was enduring; _just a little._

“You’re not comprehending.” Sherlock shakes his head, his heart spasming like it is being squeezed by an invisible hand. “Then... It was different. He chose her. He could have - he didn’t have to choose her-”

“I think he did. Or I think _he thought_ he did… Mary did tell me how you were gungho on the wedding prep. Pushed him away… right into her arms.”

“I - I was trying to put his happiness first. I was trying to be a supportive friend,” Sherlock snaps defensively.

“It’s all the same thing, Sherl.” She throws her hands up in frustration. “You’re always keepin’ him at arm's length when y’ur not outright shoving him away. Then, when you have given him no other option, you punish him for trying for anything else. You know he hurts when you hurt. He was right there beside you the entire time you were unconscious after you’d been shot. He bullied his way in just so he could hold your hand and beg you to keep fighting.” She smiles softly. “I pretended not to see.” Sherlock shakes his head, feeling a drop in his s5tomach. “Two of the bravest men I know and they are cowards when it comes to this.” 

Sherlock swallows and looks away feeling deflated. He’d never really considered it from John’s perspective. The back and forth battle he had raged inside himself to kill his feelings had a casualty he had never anticipated.

Janine watches him quietly for a few moments then sighs and gently curls her fingers around the lapels of his coat. “I could just shake you, you know. Don’t you get it? This is a big risk he’s takin’ here, for all the world to see. He told me that right here, he’d all but admitted to Irene that he loved you, but he thought you loved _her_ … Believes the papers about you and me too. You've got him so turned about. He really has _no idea_ how you feel for him, Sherl. You hide right in his blindspot. But he told me that, even if you don’t choose him, he wants you to have everything to be happy. That’s what _this_ is about. He wants you to heal. He wants you to be _Sherlock Holmes,_ with _The Work_ and people and resources. He has seen the worst and still believes in the best of you. He cares. _That’s_ love... I don’t doubt that you love him too, but you can’t keep going like you have done. Either love him right or let him go, sweetie.” Sherlock looks down at her hands gripping his lapels in that way that is somehow like the stern affection of an older sister and his chest hurts at the thought. They probably could have been friends if he hadn’t been so cold towards her in his effort to kill his own feelings for John. He looks into her eyes.

_Let John go? He's tried. He can't. But the alternative…_

“I’m not sure how…” 

Her mouth pulls up into a sideways smile, her eyes still soft. “You’re a quick learner.” Sherlock swallows around the uneasiness in his chest and nods slowly.

“Hey.” She gives his lapel a tug and he meets her eyes. She searches his face and says softly but firmly, “Don’t throw it all away. Don’t shut people out. Whatever happens; whatever you choose... live a _good life,_ Sherl. It’s all we want for you. _All of us._ There’s a lot of people that need a world with Sherlock Holmes in it.” She leans close and runs her finger over his brow, smoothing the wrinkle there, then places her hands flat against his chest, over his heart. She pats it, steps back and smiles brightly. 

“That’s that then.” She taps her finger against her cheek, looking thoughtful. “Right. The note.” She reaches into the folds of her cape. “Really sweet, that. Makes me wish I wasn’t on me tod. Must find meself a romantic one.” She thrusts the note into his direction, laughing gently. Sherlock takes it and clasps his hands behind his back. He clears his throat and looks around before tucking his chin and looking up at her. He takes a deep breath. 

“I never said I was sorry.” 

“Don’t you dare,” she says playfully punching him lightly in the arm. “You were the best thing could have happened to me, Sherlock Holmes. Got me away from that creep, Magnussen, and out to my cottage in Sussex Downs. Nice place, really. I’ve just redecorated. You should call down... Or I can slum it - stop by Baker Street.” She smiles. 

“I think... I would like that,” Sherlock says with a genuine smile. 

She nods decisively, a brown locke from her perfectly styled hair straying across her forehead. “It’s a date, Sherl.” She winks at him and then turns to walk away, hips swaying and high heels clicking on the concrete as she clutches her fur cape.

“Oh,” She says stopping and turning to face him again. “Almost forgot. Told John I was going to talk to you about how I’d forgiven you and all that.” Her grin turns a little wicked as she tips her chin down. “Trust you won’t rat me out… you know… if you see him.” 

Sherlock narrows his eyes on her, trying to discern her knowing look, but she turns away and slips back into the rows she’d emerged from. Sherlock looks down at the note. He takes a deep breath and opens it.

>   
>  I know love's not a mystery to you Sherlock. I have seen your love in the things you do, the people you protect. It may have let you down, like when Irene turned against you, but that wasn’t _real love._ She was just another attempt by Moriarty to get at your heart so he could destroy it.  
>  Don't let him win.  
>  Whatever happens between us, you deserve true love.  
> 

__________________________________________

Sherlock takes a cab to Baker Street, then walks the path they’d taken when they’d escaped the police when they’d come to arrest Sherlock. He hadn’t planned to run with John, he had meant for John to be safely out of harm’s way, but then the ex-soldier, usually so respectful of official authority, had chinned the Superintendent. When they’d been handcuffed together, there really wasn’t another option. Sherlock thinks about the note from the pool as he recalls how John had instantly relaxed when Sherlock had pointed a gun at his head; more at ease when his life was in Sherlock’s hands, always trusting that he had a plan or would figure one out.

As he winds his way through the streets and alleys they had desperately fled down, Sherlock feels a warmth take over him as he remembers John’s hand slipping into his own. He’d knew that it was near the end for him, that Moriarty was closing in, and he would have to make sacrifices, but for that one moment he was free, his heart was soaring, he was holding onto John and running - the rest fell away. 

Sherlock freezes when he gets to the wall that had been in the video. They’d stopped there, breathless, leaning back and just looking at each other, chests heaving, hearts pumping, hands brushing. 

The young man facing the wall shakes his can of spray paint and continues to fill in his very realistic rendition of that moment. Two dark, nearly featureless figures with their backs against the wall and holding onto a little bit of metal between them.

“You like it.” The young man, Raz, leans back and looks it over. “I call it _‘Restless Anticipation’_.”

“Intriguing, as always,” Sherlock says thoughtfully as he steps closer to study the image of John. Raz has managed to capture his profile perfectly and up closer the dark shapes have subtle shifts in colouring, that gives him depth rather than the flat silhouettes they appear to be from afar. 

After several long moments of the young man bent to his work, Sherlock clears his throat expectantly. All the others had messages for him, things to say, he expects this to be the same. Raz lifts his head and looks at Sherlock. He scratches at the back of his neck a moment and looks back at his work, then to Sherlock.

“I ha’en’t much to say. I speak through my artwork mostly. But did want you to know, it means somethin’ that you always appreciated my work… And you’ve been good to the homeless network... seen we’re worth something… _investing,_ you call it?... only you invested in us.. nice to be seen as worth something.” Raz tosses his can in his bag, then pulls a note out of his pocket and hands it to Sherlock. He shoulders his bag. 

They stare at each other a moment and Raz looks as if he wants to say more but decides not to. “Best of British, Sherlock,” Raz’s smile is crooked and mischievous as he gives a mock salute to Sherlock, the blade of his hand bright red and speckled in dark purple paint. He takes a few steps backwards with a grin on his face and nods his head towards the image on the wall.

“Meant to be viewed up close.” He turns and jogs away, his words trailing after him, “A commentary on shifting perspective and reality’s subjective nature.” 

Sherlock returns his eyes to the image. Raz considers himself a true artist and London his canvas. His pieces are always surprisingly thoughtful, with poignant messages intended to challenge assumptions.

Sherlock moves closer and, with his back nearly against his own silhouette on the wall, he discovers the optical illusion Raz has created. In the same position as Sherlock had been that night, the image of John leaps into three dimensions and John appears as he was that night, staring at Sherlock. Sherlock’s breath catches and his heart pounds as John’s intense expression fixes on him. He lets his head bow, the emotions of that night tumbling over him and making his eyes burn. Then he pushes away from the wall and opens the note.

>   
>  This moment. I wished we could have kept running together, far away from it all. The world was crashing down around us but you were all I ever needed. 

  
_________________________________________________

Sherlock knows the roof of Bart’s is next, but it is too painful. Whomever is up there and whatever he is to find does not seem worth it. Nor does Leinster Gardens. He works his way through the rest of the locations; deeper and deeper into their shared history, reigniting memories he had long ago resigned to the cupboards of his Mind Palace. 

At each location John has arranged someone to meet Sherlock; a living, breathing reminder of the lives he had changed for the better. And each person has a note from John with simple words confessing how deeply John had felt about Sherlock in that moment or encouraging him to find his inner strength, believe in himself and embrace his heart. With each new location, Sherlock's mind twists further free from the putrefying image he had created of himself and stretches towards the light. 

At his parents home, staring at that photo of the two young guileless boys he barely recalls, he at last allows himself to touch that deep well of loss in Mycroft’s death. With his parent’s arms wrapped around him, as they hadn’t done since he was a child, he weeps and truly begins to grieve. 

Physically and emotionally drained, sleep overtakes him and he wakes eight solid hours later, curled in his childhood bed with that photo clutched in his hand. Afternoon light creeps lazily over a new world of possibility greeted by a surprising sense of renewal and excitement swelling within Sherlock. 

Something inside him has shifted and unlocked. 

As he travels back to London, fingers running over the notes in his pockets, he can't help but recall Hopkins impassioned words that day she had seen him hit rock bottom and offered to help him pick up the shattered pieces and move on. _‘It’s as much like death as it is like birth; we meet it naked, stripped bear to the truest version of ourselves.’_ In the light of this new day, having been nourished by love and stripped bear by the gauntlet of truth, he feels reborn; ready to face the promises John had lain before him.

It is late afternoon when he stands on the steps of 221 Baker Street. His world has come full circle. Yesterday seems like an eternity ago. Nothing has really changed, yet everything has. _He_ has changed. 

For a moment, he stands in the doorway, touching the door knocker that has been twisted to the side, John’s preferred way to close the door is to grab ahold of the knocker and yank, always leaving it askew. That it is once again turned can only mean one thing; _John is here._

He had been expecting to see John all through yesterday, around every corner and at every arranged location. As the day went on he was filled with a rising tide of longing to see the man; the yet invisible force driving his odyssey. It had always been there; _saudade._ That deep sense of loneliness and incompleteness in John’s absence, but he hadn't let himself feel it, really. He had always pushed it down. But the journey John had given him had drawn that need to the surface from all those deep caverns hidden below the surface, like drawing poison from an envenomed wound. 

_The stage is set. The curtain lifts. Time to begin._

He pushes open the door and steps inside, his body tingling with anticipation and fear. The stairs loom before him like the last mountain he must scale on an arduous expedition and he feels strangely empty; those cancerous emotions bled out but now he is left hollowed and waiting for something new to fill the void. He stands there, naked, nothing but his raw, fragile, newly resensitized form to set against the gift John has given him. 

He is startled by the door of 221A popping open and Mrs. Hudson rushing out. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she gushes, stopping just outside her door with her clenched and trembling hands brought together at her mouth, as if in prayer or to hold words in. Sherlock blinks, his mouth working in silent shock for a moment 

They both move at the same time, meeting in the middle as he stoops to embrace her. “Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock breathes, his voice trembling. She clutches him tightly then pulls back, grabbing him by the shoulders to look him over. Her eyes are full of tears. Her expression incongruently stern. 

“Shame on you, not telling me it was safe to return,” she admonishes. 

“I - I didn't think you'd come,” he confesses. 

“Nonsense!” She scolds, swatting him gently on the shoulder. “Who else is going to look after you?” Sherlock’s eyes automatically flick to the door of 221B in response to her inquiry. When they meet hers again, she is smiling knowingly. 

“Well, there’s _that..._ I always thought-” She paused and gives a little shake of her head, deciding it's best to refrain from appearing to prefer an outcome. She does, of course. She's made it more than clear over the years that she thinks he and John are good for each other, persistently implying there was more going on between them, in spite of all evidence to the contrary. 

“Whatever you decide, dear.” She touches his cheek softly for a moment; her eyes brimming with affection and sadness as she studies his bruises. “Oh, dear, what has happened?” For a moment Sherlock stares back at her, just memorizing her face. 

“You left, Mrs. Hudson... England _fell,_ ” he replies softly. Her face flickers with amusement before it crashes down into sadness with the heavy truth of that statement. 

“Fell _indeed,_ ” She says shakily as they embrace again. “Well I shan't do it again. Can't chase me away, for all the good in the world.” Sherlock buries his face in her small shoulder, breathing in that familiar scent, like cinnamon and apple rum. The world, his little part of it anyhow, does feel good. 

“Come now,” she says pulling away after a long hug and smoothing herself. “Someone might actually think you missed your _landlady,_ Sherlock Holmes.” 

“You’re a bit more than that, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says plainly. Mrs. Hudson’s face tightens as her efforts at pulling herself together are struck down by his honesty. She twists her own fingers; trying so hard to hold back tears as she stares up at him that she is trembling with it. Sherlock sees her about to burst and straightens up. “You're also my _housekeeper,_ ” he says in his smooth, matter-of-fact tone. 

“Sherlock!” She whacks him lightly on the arm again in mock indignation and he smiles down at her, a sense of peace slipping over him. “Speaking of…” She turns, fluttering into her flat and returning; clutching her purse and pulling her coat on. “I haven’t a thing in and neither have you, so I am just going to pop off to the shops for a bit and perhaps later I can bring up some nibbles.” She gives him one more long look, sighs, and slips past him. “It’s good to be home,” she says before closing the door behind herself. 

Sherlock smiles as he lifts his eyes to the doorway of 221B once more. He takes a breath and steels himself for the last and most crucial leg of his journey.  



	6. Love Ain’t Gonna Let you Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing left but to face each other.

Pausing for a moment on the final step, Sherlock draws the remaining vestiges of his courage around him. The same day John had reduced Victor to a pulp, he had stood in this flat and said a private, silent goodbye as he looked around the room, pausing only on his violin. There had been no music left in his hands, heart nor soul. He believed, or more truthfully, had _wished,_ that day would end with his death; be it at his own or Victor’s hands. The last two weeks here have been like drifting through a fog. Now, for the first time in a very long time, 221b might actually be home again.

He draws a shuddering breath and feels that now familiar doubt whisper into his mind. _Maybe this isn’t real. Maybe now he is hallucinating, or finally gone truly mad? Isn’t this exactly where his mind would take him when it needed to hide from a petrifying reality? Back to 221b; John in his chair, kettle boiling and a fire in the grate?_

He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the thought. It is irrelevant, really. He is beyond caring whether this is reality or not. On the other side of that door is everything he has ever wanted, wished for, fantasied about. If he _can_ trust this, John has offered up his heart and laid it out, naked and unprotected, for the entire world to see. _He always was the brave one._ Well, now is the time to match his courage. 

Sherlock’s outstretched hand reaches for the closed door to the living room and pushes, the grain of the wood slightly warm, a faint waft of dust combining with tea, resin and burning wood and a presence that seems to infuse everything that was flat and hollow with life once again. _Home._ John is in his chair, leant forward, bandaged hands resting on his knees. 

John’s body tenses at the faint creaking of the door. He has been waiting here for two days, never knowing when Sherlock will return from his journey, but it feels like he has been waiting for this moment for a lifetime. His eyes eagerly drink in Sherlock for the first time since that night in the alley. Sherlock had been duller then; drained of life, like a zombie. A beaten bloody and broken shell of his former self. The eyes that now catch his own for an all too brief second have recovered some of that inner light. Sharply perceptive, they travel over him and, even though he has always felt as if the man could see straight through him, this feels _different;_ as if Sherlock is seeing him for the first time. 

John’s heart is hammering against his ribs and his insides skitter nervously, lurching towards his throat. His tongue flicks out over his lips, wetting them, preparing them for the words that are surely about to spill out. However, all those persuasive, clever, heartfelt lines that he had prepared to express the breadth and depth of his love evaporate. What is left to say now? He’d poured every word, every confession, every inner truth out to Sherlock throughout that predetermined pilgrimage. _It is all up to Sherlock now._

As John looks up, their eyes meet for just a second before Sherlock focuses on John’s hands. “May I?” Sherlock’s voice is hesitant; quiet and a deep rumbling in the space between them, like the logs shifting in the fire. John nods and slowly shifts forward in his chair. 

Gingerly removing his Belstaff and hanging it up, Sherlock pulls his own chair up close to John’s and seats himself with a hair’s breadth of space between their knees. 

Sherlock's touch is gentle, not hesitant, but _careful._ As he unravels the bandages, John feels himself unraveling as well. Tension he didn't know he was holding in his chest, arms and shoulders, slowly unwinding, layer by layer, until the fabric flutters free and it is just the ugly, gnarled, bare flesh of his damaged hands. They are trembling slightly. Sherlock's fingers hover for a moment and then he looks up into John's eyes, silently asking permission again. The flash of John’s answering smile dazzles him and for a second he is disorientated, staring down at the scabbed fingers; confused, thinking they are his own.

“I know, I know, they’re awful.” John starts to pull his hands away, ashamed that all he has left to offer Sherlock is scarred and mangled imperfections. John's movement brings Sherlock hurtling back to himself. At that moment, the idea of not touching John’s hands is an abomination to him. He slides his own larger hands underneath John's so they are resting palm to palm. Sherlock slowly lifts them to his lips, touching the faintest of kisses to each knuckle in turn.

Sherlock had used to think that 221b Baker Street was his bolthole, his den, a safe nest away from the rest of the world. His sanctuary and home. As his lips touch John’s battered hands he knows that was never true; he had allowed Victor to come in and violate everything. Nothing had been safe, nothing had protected him. He had been wrong all along. John is his sanctuary, these broken hands are his safety and only when they are together is Sherlock home.

“Never say that again,” whispers Sherlock. “These hands saved my life, saved me.” 

The words float into his brain then his throat, utterly unbidden. The rightness of them fills him with a strength and light he has not felt in months. To not say them is as impossible as the Thames not flowing into the English Channel. Sherlock raises his eyes to meet John’s.

“I love you.” He leans forward and, heart flooded with certainty, he presses a kiss to John’s lips.

It is soft and unwavering, delivered without reservation, and then there are no more words needed. As the last light of the day dwindles and the evening hours wax and wane, they slowly, carefully learn each other's scars. Through gentle, reverent touches of fingertips and then lips they cauterize each other’s wounds and make a silent pilgrimage to lay to rest all those previous wars, to purge that pain that is etched into their flesh. 

For Sherlock, certain touches in particular places bring a rush of dark memories. From time to time he stills John’s hand for a moment. Although he knows this is different: this is love, not control; affection, not punishment, his body still needs time to unlearn physical intimacy as pain. John listens to Sherlock's unspoken direction, never pushing. He smooths over yellowing bruises and brushes gentle lips over scabbed and healing skin. With each delicate caress, he returns a part of Sherlock to himself.

For all that there is lips on skin it never strays into the libidinous. For all that there is naked flesh, it never becomes something fleshly. It is hushed and fragile, sometimes trembling with the emotion of the deepest wounds being exposed and the vulnerability of being truly seen. It is falling headlong into a trust that now, after all the pain and heartbreak, _love isn't going to let them down no more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, before 2017 begins this fic comes to a happy end.  
> We hoped you enjoyed the journey as much as we have enjoyed the learning experience of writing together!  
> We appreciate all the feedback and encouragement everyone has offered. Please do continue to leave your comments and Kudos.

**Author's Note:**

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